Rhymes From my Youth - This Tear

I found a pile of my old poetry and lead sheets the other day and wanted to share some of this collection with y'all.

Like a bead of glass, this tear roles down his face
Hurling toward the ground, it shatters unseen space
Drifting down we come, covered with this fragrance
Floating up again, we get another chance
At life

This tear is a multitude of sorrow
Yet filled with a world of endless joy
This tear is the sharp caress of death
But this tear is the promise of new life

Suspended in air, it swells like a tempest
Between the eyes of man and the sky is where I will rest
That's where I'll rest

This tear is a melody of anguish
This is the consequence of liberty
This tear is at the boiling point of failure
But this tear is dancing with victory

Spoils of a Blustery Day

It is the beginning of autumn in the northern hemisphere. The air is crisp, the sun is low, and everything is dry. For southern California, it is simply the beginning of a cooler summer with more wind and fire danger. Some trees change colors and lose their leaves, but most stay the same, clinging to the hope that water will fall from the sky in a few months or lounging in the luxury of consistent irrigation.
The fruits in the photo are part of my edible collection; spoils of an expedition down the street on a particularly blustery day. Free avocados... a thing I shall miss should I ever move away from SoCal country.

Within every day there is a moment of purpose. A moment I understand as the reason I got out of bed. A moment so beautiful and surreal, my soul often hurts if I remain to contemplate it. Some days I ignore this moment and hope that it will pass me by, leaving my insides unscathed. But most days I wait eagerly for the promise, for the gift that will rip me open and dare me to look straight into eternity. Today I wait.
These moments are hardly more noticeable than the moments that surround them. To anyone on the outside, they are very mundane and simple events that are only another block in a block castle of a day. To me, they are breakthroughs. Tiny holes torn out of the fabric that divides this world from the other. These moments remind me that I am alive, that life is worth living, that here is a purpose for life. I try to keep my eyes open so that my heart can see the moment of purpose in every day.

Two weeks ago the moment of purpose happened early in the morning before sunrise. My eight year old nephew and I were the only ones up. We started talking and within the abnormal, sweet conversation we soon came to subject of music. He asked me if I knew the song, This Is My Father's World. I sadly admitted that I only knew some of the words and not the melody, but that I would like to learn. He then proposed to teach me and began to sing. Flawless. Pure. Perfect. I was submerged in the promised moment. I tried not to cry. I really did try.

Last week I was cleaning up the art room and dug out this relic -
That guy in the center...


...he's the reason I woke up that day.


This afternoon I thought the moment must have come and passed me by. I was so lost inside myself and the hurt of the day that I though I must have missed it. The promise must have been there, I just didn't get to see it today. But then, there it was. The moment was wrapped up in a note from a friend telling me about the walk he went on with God yesterday. Beautiful. Simple. Solid.

Mundane moments of purpose fill my life. His mercies are new every morning.

Short Story 1

I didn't know where I was going

But I had a sense of where I'd been

I didn't see it coming

Creeping up silently

Until it could not be stopped

And it became part of me

It was cold and heavy

So heavy, I couldn't breath

It suffocated me

Death creeps silently

Last Day of Tabernacles 09

"Good morning", I attempted in the least groggy voice i could muster as I leaned over the edge of the cot. Dad was peering into the booth through a slit in one of the fabric walls, the one with the EDCO recycle bin on the other side. He nodded his regards and continued walking, teapot in hand, up the hill and to his office. When he had seen that I was awake and attempting communication, I watched affection mingle with amusement in his eyes. That rugged smirk probably stayed on his face for several paces after he left our temporary dwelling, perhaps longer.
I looked down and was faced with the bloodshot eyes of my sister as she grappled with the fact that she was awake, she was on the ground outside, there was a dog sprawled out on her blankets nearly on top of her, and my predawn face was dangling over hers. "Why wouldjou say 'g'morning'?" She stretched half heartedly and yawned, "... whatime is it?" After my explanation, we both fell back into sleep with the mist slowly dissipating around us and the light growing steadily.

Almost every autumn, we drag our bedding out side, unroll mats and cots, hang sheets and tree branches from various structures to create semi-sheltered habitations, and then we live out there for a week. Some years we are more committed than others. Some we can be found eating our meals and playing games in the shelters. Some years we only sleep in them. One year we slept in cardboard boxes for a week with only sleeping bags and cats to stay warm.
When I was little, the reason for this week was to camp out for a couple hours, smell the tree branches and go back inside when it got cold. When I grew a little older, I remembered when the Israelites had wandered in the wilderness and Adonai had come to live with them in a tent called a tabernacle. I liked to draw the connection between that tabernacle and a little stable in Bethlehem thousands of years later; both temporary dwelling places where the Creator came to live with us. Then I began using this week of homelessness to identify with the millions of people around the world who have no permanent dwelling. I would sleep under the stars imagining what it must be like to live outside all year round, relying on the charity or whims of others to get through the next day. What would it be like to know that there was no bedroom to go back to if it got too cold? What would it be like to know that the only guarantied meal was the one that I just ate? What if these people sharing this space with me were not family and friends?
I would catch myself thinking of and praying for people living under the weight of constant struggle. People just down on their luck, and people trapped in sub-poverty, starving before birth. Displaced families crossing international borders, some seeking a better life, some seeking the right to life. I think of these and fail to feel the extent of their hardships. God lives with them.

This year I am caught with a blank stare slapped on my face as I stumble through the fact that I am a temporary dwelling. Just like our little tents and cardboard shacks will sooner or later cave to the elements or be torn down, our lives here will only last as long as they last. But just like the tabernacle in the wilderness, my life is a holy residence. God lives with me... in me.

I didn't want to get out of bed this morning when I woke my sister up. Not because the cot was entirely comfortable, nor because I was terribly sleepy, and not because I couldn't wait for the dog to try to lick my face one more time. But simply because God was living there with us.

dark with murderous numbness, icy fog gathers on the horizon threatening to engulf my soul... again.
it is on the outside this time, assaulting my defences with disciplined zeal and patient persistence. this creeping thing is out there, laying siege to the fleshly structure that houses my spirit, attacking all that it can within the jungle of neurotransmitters and receivers and chemicals and hormones. it tries.
this slithering thing is out there and i am thankful. it is not inside. it is no longer a parasite - a stowaway in another humans heart that i would welcome with open arms. i would gladly embrace that heart and in doing so take the hit that would put me under. i wouldn't feel the break. i wouldn't smell the burn. that puff of smoke would blur seen reality into unrecognizable shapes and visions. a cacophonous chaos unperceived by drugged consciousness would burrow through me like a disease. i would not hear the sirens. they would be too late.
its motives are clear and uncensored, but for this thing, my soul is not a safe place anymore. this thing that would shred, cut, smash and tear me to pieces is on the outside peering in with ravenous longing etched into its ancient weary eyes, but it dare not enter without invitation. there is no hiding place dark enough, no fortress sturdy enough to protect it from the master of my soul. should it enter unbidden, its destruction would be swift and merciful and there would be no trace, not even vapors. it knows this, so it remains on the outside assailing, gnawing, speaking softly in my ear. "awe, poor sweetie, just listen, just wait. poor baby, please, let me in. just listen..." melodious and pathetic, its voice strings out coaxing monologues. it wants a piece of me... no... it wants more.
it knows about the light in the depths of my being, a light that is apart from me but that i am a part of. it has seen that light and it hides in the shadows of its gaping valley. it knows our romance, the one that stretches across the plains of human existence. the love story that is written on every cell of my body, in every song that i sing, in every smile, in every sob... the numb, icy fog of death itself longs for this. i am willing to share.
but soon light will overtake me and catch my spirit up into the presence where everything dissipates into beauty. and light will whisper, "honey, we're home."

The Roof On Fire

Brother and I have returned to dry heat, frenchless labels and regular week days. Settling back into a normal so.cal. routine of school, work and the promise of play has been easy, but a little saddening. When's the next time I'll be able to go running in the forest to take a bath in the lake? When will dinner be caught in out front yard? When might I hear the farewell, "Wish I could stay longer, but the wind is picking up and my home is sinking." I miss so much about Refuge Cove.


The air was a sweltering 105 degrees Fahrenheit all day everyday for about a week and it hadn't rained in over a month. The trees were getting crunchy, the upper dam was running dry, a campfire ban was in effect across the entire area. Then things started to break; the boardwalk, the ice machine, the freezers, our will to survive... All the fixings for a typical Refuge cove work day, except it was hot as a wort hog's backside.
One evening of that hellish week there was a birthday gathering on the upper deck of the cafe. Most of the Cove's inhabitants attended the non-air conditioned celebration, though perhaps a bit reluctantly due to the puddles forming in various bodily crevasses. It was a lovely happy hour style party and at some point someone even brought ice to share, but it was all too quaint for such an auspicious occasion as Miss Meg's birthday. It seems something dramatic happens every anniversary of her birth and this year was to be no different.
We were all getting ready to return to our respective sanctums of cool habitation when auntie Di came running out of the store and down the dock ramp with an entourage of bucket carriers. We all jumped to our feet only to see smoke rising from the generator shed. The little wooden shack that houses the machine that generates electricity for the docks, all of downtown and most of the homes on the island was on fire.
While brother helped on the roof dodging hot wires and avoiding falling through, I helped connect hoses together to reach the flames. Of course no one thought through the fact that all the water pressure relied upon the generator which was not functioning. So the bucket brigade began. We had buckets all the way down to the sea and the passing line was very efficient. The backup generator was turned on to try to get water pressure back but all it did was spray soot everywhere and on everyone near. We looked like street urchins from Oliver Twist. After not too long we had a working hose with sufficient pressure up to the roof and the blaze was put out.
Looking back at the incident we all could see how bad it could have been. Had the fire been spotted a few minutes later we would have easily had a forest fire on our hands. Had there been fewer people downtown at that moment, Refuge Cove might not have survived.
Now there are plans to install a longer hose and a water pump that does not rely on the generator.
Thankfully, that was the most dramatic story of the summer.

The pest war begins

You know you have a pest problem when you find them crawling in your toilet bowl.
We were invaded by large wood-burrowing black ants last night. These things were massive. I wanted to strap a saddle to one, call it Black Beauty and ride off into the sunset. Carpenter ants I am told. They don't bite or sting, but they burrow through the frames of wooden houses like termites and they don't die easily. During the first extermination attempt the floor was littered with a thousand corpses all killed by stomping. As soon as the first thousand were vacuumed up, two thousand took their place, scurrying about the living room and kitchen. We tried regular ant traps and insecticide, but alas, they did not die. Battles were fought and there were many casualties, but in the end we beat the little beasties. We tricked 'em with laced sugar.
As I silently celebrate our morbid victory over the ant colony, I try to ignore the shrill cry of victory that echoes across the forest as the pine squirrels return to their nest with plunder from our walls. One battle has been won, but the war has only begun...

Bananas into beer

I have not fallen off the face of the planet... yet. The internet connection is very sketchy up here and there is a little too much baking going on, hence the lack of current posts.
The Refuge Cove General Store has ordered more bananas than we can sell. They turn brown and then either sit in the freezer for a decade and a half or are thrown into the compost. I suggested bread. Everyone fancied that proposition and so I began baking. The banana bread frenzy that followed was good enough to put on the shelves next to the french and sourdough. I make a small profit because the most expensive of the ingredients are free. Because my aunt is kind enough to share her old flour and baking utensils, most of the funds acquired by this endeavor will be used to by beer for her fridge. Bananas into beer.

Other than that, the time that I am not working at the store is spent falling through boardwalks, repairing boardwalks, teaching belly dance, writing songs, washing dishes, tie-dieing, swimming, fretting about weasels in the walls and squirrels stealing our insulation, chatting it up with the locals, scribbling, and playing with my hair. It is summer and all is well when I allow that top layer of mush in my life to be scraped away - that annoying collection of misconceptions, grumblings and noise that seems to squish its way onto most activities. Yep, when all that yucky crap I seem to hang on to is gone, it really feels like a summer vacation up here.

shabbat far from home

Damn French labels on everything driving me nuts! I nearly lost it big time today stocking shelves and having to re-arrange every item so that the English side of the label was facing the audience of patrons. So frustrated was I that an electric fly swatter found its home resting on my fingertips. It was a pleasant jolt of electrical current that gave me the motivation to cheerfully return to work.

You ever have one of those days that just seems off? Everything you try to do goes a little wrong and everything anyone says just grates on your nerves. The funny thing about those days for me is that there is small niggling voice that is almost nagging, but not quite, that says things like:
"Sweety, just wash the extra dish."
"No. Clean it thoroughly."
"Yes, pick up that scrap of compost and put it in the bin."
"Now smile... on the inside, dear."
"Good start. Now lets try some joy on for size..."
"Pet the dog.... oh, please be gentle...."
"Ok, you may list your excuses in order if you must, but you know they are not going to change my mind. You still need to forgive him."
On and on the Voice goes, demanding greater and greater feats of self control, patience, forgiveness, love... until I find myself either doing what it demands or hiding my consciousness from everything that surrounds it. Last night it all felt like too much and I escaped to bed averting my eyes from everything I could manage so there would be nothing to feed on. It worked pretty well I thought. Understand now; if I can't see it, then it's not there. It seems to me that if its not there, the Voice cant tell me to do anything about it. But I couldn't close my ears. I could hear Brother on the phone in the other room talking with the family at home.
Stab.Scrape.Grit. Every word like nails on a chalkboard.
"You love him. Get over it." Came the Voice.
But he....
"Honey, I'm not really in the mood for your excuses. I'll listen, but you know what the answer is."
Grumble. Fine.
"Awe! See? Don't you feel better?"
I imagined the Voice had a huge approving grin on. That thought erased any sort of resentment I might have otherwise felt and I drifted into peace and sleep.
The Voice is never wrong.

The Bottomless Sea

"Flirtation With Satan" was the name of the ship
Upon which I'd set my sights
"Great boat for travel" read the gold flyer
And soon I'd sold the salesman my rights
to sail that ship across the bottomless sea

Well, "Flirtation With Satan" seemed to spring a leak
Just as the vessel caught fire
It sank to the bottom of the bottomless sea
An' I held on longer than I desired
and went down into the depths of the bottomless sea

Now I suppose I'd be drowned today if it weren't for that man
Who plunged to the bottom of the bottomless sea
He looked like he'd been through hell
And heck, I s'pose he had, just to get a sturdy grip on me
and pull me up from the bottomless sea

Hey, I'm a stout swimmer and I know I tried to help
But swimmin' down instead of up didn't work out too well
And if he weren't there dragging me toward the light
The dice roll holds that I'd be there and not alive to tell
about the bottom of the bottomless sea

Of Cod And Squirels.

If anyone ever wants to get a fishing license up here in BC, just go online and apply for one at: http://www.pac.dfo-mpo.gc.ca/fm-gp/rec/licence-permis/index-eng.htm. It is simple and much cheaper, just make sure you have your Canadian address handy.

So we got Brother a license to fish. He went out in the HMS Floating Brick* and caught a huge cod. It was about two and half feet long and a chunk was taken out of its tail fin. It was delicious.
We turned half of it into Fish 'n' Chips and the other half is cod steaks in the freezer. You can find the recipe for the batter at my other blog, Inventor's Asylum.

Last night there was a squirrel in the house. More direct and to the point: there was a squirrel in our room. Even more undeniably unforgivable: there was a squirrel on Brother's pillow. I suppose it could have been a martin or a mouse of grotesque size, but the furry thing slunk along the top of his head and beneath my bed in the middle of the night and left no sign of itself other than the hole in the ceiling. The squirrels around here steal insulation from the walls and the martins steal food from the cupboards and since there was no food in our room, we have placed the blame on squirrels.

*our outboard propelled boat that moves like a barge

Lights! Thunder! Action!

I was knocked nearly out of bead this morning by a clattering banging noise over head. My room is below the kitchen and so I assumed that it must be my aunt up at some ungodly hour of the night dropping all the pots and pans. But then it didn't stop. Perhaps it's a drunk burglar rummaging through all the cookery and kicking the furniture down in his stupor, i thought, almost conscious. But there was no pause. My next slumber-plagued assessment of the banging, earth rumbling, tooth-jarring noise was that Russia had finally snapped and we were being invaded. I was prepared to wake my brother and head to the basement. And no, it did not occur to me that we were already in the basement. Only when the offending wake up call still persisted and I was fully committed to not sleeping did I recall the T-storm warning on the forecast the day before.
Leave me alone, I cant help what my sub-conscious is worried about.
It was a very impressive storm and luckily the rain came along with it, otherwise today would have been spent fighting forest fires instead of bagging groceries. A bolt of lightning hit the power grid at some point and our inverter was off and the Bee Man's house got struck as well, but he's alright. I haven't heard any news on the bees, but I hope they are all well and accounted for 'cause they make some mighty fine honey. Another house was struck but no one was in it, the battery is just fried.
After sleeping through the rest of the storm, I woke up and went to work to talk about the storm the rest of the day. Usually the only electricity we get out here is from the gas powered generator or solar panels, so it was pretty exciting.

Basement Lair

My basement lair is an impressive hundred odd feet above sea level at high tide. I know this rough estimate of a fact because I hike ninety-one stone steps from the board walk to the front door ever evening after work. Of course, my brother would have me point out that he sprints up and down those steps multiple times every day. The boardwalk usually sits about seven feet above the water at high tide so I figure a hundred feet give or take depending on the tide.
Within my lair, there is a bunk room that brother and I share. It is probably the cleanest room down here and there are no vampires in there because of the ever expanding spider population. There is a laundry room which is also the battery/tool shed of the house. There is a hall room with a sink, shelves, a non-functional microwave oven, and a gorgeous view of the entire cove. The other room with the sofas and electric piano is great to be in for a limited amount of time seeing as it is right next to the septic tank. At least there are windows.
At some point I will post pictures of this place, (probably when I get back to California and my usb cable). Every time I sit down to write about the beauty here, I just lose the words. I mean, I walk twenty steps up hill and I am submerged in north American rain forest, I walk twenty steps down hill and am faced with clean, clear ocean waters. It is summer and the weather is wonderful. We get water from a stream. Dinner could be caught in our front yard. I get the unsellables from my work, like old produce and expired rice milk. I walk through fairy land to reach the kind of lake you see in post cards in order to watch my younger brother leap off fifty foot cliffs. There are wolves and bald eagles in our back yard. Any anthropologist would salivate at the opportunity to meet some of the characters here. But as time goes on, I find it is easy to take it all for granted.
There will come a day that I will look back on this summer with a little grain of pain in my heart. The kind of pain that comes to fill in a hole that is made when you leave a bit of your self behind somewhere or with someone. I will not avoid that feeling, but I will not feel it yet.
Now I resign myself to my lair and will not think of that day.

The 4th of 09

Who ever invented butter must have been really angry or really bored. I just spent the greater portion of the last hour watching cream turn to butter. Riveting really. As the cream whips beyond its whipping point, fat separates from the milk and you've got butter. (And butter milk that sprays all over the kitchen because the blender speed was on too high.) Your white creamy milk has just become one of the most important substances in the galaxy, how do you feel?

Well, pretty darn tired considering I have been on my feet all day except for a ten minute lunch and a moment to open a box that was too awkward to open on the floor. It was my first day running the main store by my self and we got tubs of ice cream yesterday on the freight so there were plenty of people wanting ice cream cones. Exhilarating, but exhausting.

So exhausting that I didn't build some fireworks out of old pipes, oyster shells and lighter fluid. I'm so tired, I didn't dump a fifteen pack of Lucky into the cove protesting the ten cent deposit on every can. I'm too worn out to fantasize about flying Old Glory off the gas dock and watching the Canadians fume. Oh well. Happy Treason Day to everyone.

Now I am content to rest and recline in my basement lair, recording recipes and watching the light slowly dwindle on the surface of the water. Soon the moon will come out and cast sparkling reflections across the cove and illuminate the boats down there on the dock. The hippies across the sound on the other island have their bonfire blazing. It seems to torment my brother to no end knowing that there is someone over there using that light. I have eaten enough garlic to keep the vampires away for a while. And I am looking forward to another day of "Sorry" (pronounced with a long "o") and "aboot" instead of "about", and other bizarre terminology all jumbled together with "Ay?". I'm going to rest my weary feet on a bed with a matress and the knowledge that if there is a need in the night to turn on a light, the generator is on so the worst that would happen is a blown fuse. Yep, trapped on an island in Canada isn't too bad... So long as you don't pick up an accent.

Is It Safe?

Remember those famous last words?
Well, "Let's do something!" turned into, "You wanna go to the lake?", which was followed by, "Awe, that cliff looks too safe" and promptly became "That's got to be at least fifty feet! It's beautiful!" and I suppose his last words were, "Mom probably wouldn't want me to do this..."
Silence.
Splash!
Bubbles...
Shrill yelp of victory.
Glorious.

After hunting cliffs to jump off of, we managed to paddle the canoe against the wind all the way around the main lake in search of a particular inlet with a particular hope in our minds for a particular cottage with the possibility of finding food. When we couldn't find the inlet, we used the towel to sail our vessel toward the little rock that the seagulls nest on. To steal eggs? No. Simply wanted to practice our seagull dodging skills. It was very exiting. The dog gave up attempting to jump out of the boat at that point, so we figured it was about time to head back. The seagull squawked in triumph as we paddled away with a plot in our minds to return.
A plot to return and scale cliffs that no human has ever set foot upon and plunge into the depths of waters nigh untouched by man.

Quiet... for now.

Today is just one of those days. Beautiful and calm, as close to perfection as you can get here. There are blue skies over head, clear water down below and dry comfy moss surrounding on the hillsides. The float plane just arrived to drop off someone or something and is now heading out to take off into the wind. The trees are lightly rustling and you can hear the robins pestering the barn owl down the boardwalk. You don't need to go into to work today, heck, you don't even need to go into town! Just a relaxing day inhaling the mingled perfumes of salty sea air and warm mossy forest. Maybe you'll make yourself some herbal tea before the generator turns off and you are left with peaceful silence and limited power. Maybe do some yoga or pilates before you take that cat-nap on the window bench. You could even go sit on the porch and soak up that vitamin D producing goodness. Yep, just another day in paradise with nothing to do. At least, that's what your better judgement tells you in a desperate attempt to preserve your sanity and physical well being.

You see, my brother is almost eighteen. It's his day off too. He's not the kind of guy to sit still when there is a world outside, and I am the kind of girl who has learned that it is ok to just rest sometimes. Fishing seems to be the one activity that is always enjoyable solo, but he wont go fishing with out a license and he's an American citizen so a fishing licence would cost him just over a hundred dollars. (We have decided that he looks too male to pass for female Canadian citizen me.) He wants to do something. We've listened to music, invented lunch, bathed, and resorted to watching people out the window with the binoculars. It is one thirty and so far my better judgement is pleased. But the sun doesn't go down until nine...



"Lets do something!" he says. Famous last words.

Son of Beer (An adaptation of a legend)

Once upon a time there was Beer. Beer was awful lonely just hanging around on it's own, so one day it decided to wander the world in search of meaning and purpose. Throughout it's travels, Beer met people. Yes, people were so very strange but they seemed to enjoy the company of Beer very much, and it was so lonely it figured it aught to stick with the people. Perhaps some day it would find purpose among these bipeds. Beer encountered many other creatures and substances on its journey and became friends with many of them as well, but Beer was always close to the people.
At some point, the people became very sad. They worked all day and many straight into the night. Their bodies hurt, their heads hurt, and many had hurt in their heart. When Beer saw that its friends were sad and in pain, it wanted to help how ever it could. Beer tried everything! Jokes, tricks, massages, hot baths, cookies, flowers.... but nothing seemed to work. There was just so much wrong with the people on the inside. If only there were a way to get inside to get at the problems.... And there it was. The solution seemed so simple. Beer told the people to drink itself. Most of the people were so desperate they actually did!
Beer was so excited to be helping its friends that the moment they drank it, Beer forgot its plan. It forgot how it was going to get at the root of the problems. It forgot that it was going to bring those problems to the outside and show the people so they knew what to fix. In fact, Beer forgot almost everything. But it was so excited! All it could remember was "make people happy". So Beer ran around recklessly inside of people until their skin was warm and their brains were buzzing. Soon the people forgot that they had hurt at all and Beer was so pleased to have helped. But as time went on, it became clear to everyone that as Beer got tired and stopped running, the hurt or sad came back. So the people needed to drink Beer more often and more of it to stay happy. Many people would drink Beer even if they weren't sad, but it never filled them entirely and they were always wanting more. Sometimes people even did bad things and then blamed it on Beer. Those were sad times.
Beer grew tired of people and soon sought other company. After long years of searching for meaning in life, it gave up and fell in with a band of miscreants. With some of the members of such a band, Beer fathered several illegitimate children. One of its spawn they call Lucky.
Now Lucky understood his father's failure in attempting to fit into a 'higher calling'. Lucky would have no part in a wasted life, but neither would he strive to be more than he was. Lucky was son of Beer and was proud of it. All he cared to do was exist to be drunk by people. That's all he wanted.
When he was of age, Lucky hopped a barge headed east and made his home in a little settlement known as Refuge Cove. He quickly made friends with one of his darker cousins named Ironhorse, and together they spent their days happily drunk.

---An adaptation of a legend.

Here's an intro to Refuge Cove

For the next two months, my brother and I will be inhabiting the basement of a large house overlooking Refuge Cove, BC. Refuge, (affectionately known as Refuse Cove), is a very small settlement tucked away in the nook of an island three ferries and a speed boat away from Vancouver city. To give you an idea of how small it really is, I would dare you to tell one person a secret. Within a matter of hours, that secret would have bloomed into a garden of stories and the entire population of the cove would have heard one or two versions. At least you'd have the reassurance that your secret was never told in it's original format and was still safe in a sense.
Downtown Refuge is comprised of a laundromat with a washroom and showers, the General Store, a book shack that used to be the burger stand, and a cafe. There are several cabins scattered through the woods and perched on cliffs overlooking the water owned by the co-op members and a few hermitish folk escaping the clutches of "civilized society". Though most of the inhabitants of the cove live far apart, almost all enter the central hub of activity to fill up on gossip and beer at least once a day. With a year-round population of under ten and a summer census counting just under forty, we are pretty much out in the boonies. Aside from millionaire tourists and the occasional escape mission, we are cut off from the rest of the world. Most of our days are surrounded by moss, ferns, water, woods, boats, docks, locals who are local in every sense of the term, tourists, liquor, gossip and fungus.

We both worked here two years ago so I guess that counts as fair warning, but here we are again, trapped on the island, doing odd jobs and working for the general store. I'll do my best to capture the "charm" of this place in the following posts.

And so it begins...

Hi.
I collect things. Rocks, sea shells, feathers, condiments, people, pretty paper, ideas, adventures, stories, and so forth ad nauseum. Most of the time I simply hoard these things, occasionally arranging and rearranging until I get bored and move on. But lately, I feel like I ought to share some of these things with people like you. I have decided against sharing my condiments because little packets of horseradish paste are just really hard to find and I know you all want one, and if I shared with one of you, the rest would feel left out. Therefore, I shall share words about horseradish paste and hope that it will suffice. I shall share words about rocks and feathers and the people that I am destined to meet. I will share adventures, but only if they are at all fascinating, and I will share my thoughts if ever I come across them.
I suppose if you keep up with the reading of this thing, you'll get a glimpse into my story. Hopefully it will entertain you and perhaps make you smile. I pray that my story will bring joy to yours.