RAINBOW DIARY

ISBN: 0-9718948-5-X

Credits:

Map Jim Chandler

Splake prints: Jeff Howe

Lighthouse Photograph: Dennis Grantz

Published, edited & formatted by Jim Chandler

Thunder Sandwich

165 Paris Pike

McKenzie, TN. 38201

www.thundersandwich.com

Printed in the USA by Gage Printing

220 Buckner Drive

Battle Creek, MI. 49015

Map
RAINBOW DIARY

author’s overview

“rainbow diary” describes the exile of poet and his soul mate vida from the anarchic mediocrity of mala nada to living at the cliffs on one of five small islands in the pointe achipelago. they made a courageous decision to abandon blind adherence to the mala nada old ways and rituals, choosing instead to invent a new life that would make their dreams of a creative freedom come true.

reflecting upon poet and vida’s days living beneath different rainbows arcing over the separate islands -- their frequent pauses to bathe and to make love behind the cliffs waterfall and among the wildflowers -- i muse poetically.

does poet represent the existential loner of camus’s meursault, and the cliffs jules verne’s mysterious island of captain harding, pencroft, and gideon spilette of my youth. are the “rainbow diary” accounts reminiscent of zhivago and lara living in romantic retreat on the distant russian steppes far beyond varykino. does the “rainbow diary’s” splendid cliffs lives of poet and vida resemble brautigan and pauline in “watermelon sugar,” or are they closer to the passion and trust exhibited by the newspaper comic strip characters of dick tracy and tess trueheart.

RED STRAWBERRY RAINBOW

“mala nada – pointe”

vida and i were late leaving the cliffs this morning on our rafting journey to visit mala nada on the pointe. last night a furious rain storm blew in off the big waters. there was booming thunder, sizzling lightning flashing across the dark skies, and, the winds howled through the trees until first dawn. the storm made sweet nighttime music for vida and i, as we embraced our naked bodies under the soft goat skin blankets with warm rock house foxfire glowing.

we considered hiking down to the shore and watching the monstrous big waters boiling and frothing tides, but decided against it. the last time we had stayed up all night to enjoy the magnificence of a storm’s sound and fury we got drenched by the big waters spray and returned to the cliffs stone house wet and chilled.

we loaded the raft after first dawn for the voyage to mala nada, carefully packing the green stones and goat pelts to trade for salt, sugar, used fishhooks and some of the brujo’s firesticks.

while we worked loading and rigging our raft, the thick mists that obscured the shoreline and big waters evaporated. some time during the mid-morning after the winds had died down and the waters calmed we launched our wooden raft and set out for mala nada poling under low leaden skies.

because of our late starting and the uncertainty of the late afternoon tides and weather, vida and i decided we would camp out overnight at grider creek on orchard island, and complete our rafting trip to mala nada early the next morning.

we landed the raft on a sandy strip of the shore and carried our small container of fire coals to the open faced shelter of pine boughs we used for our orchard island refuge.

in the forgotten times orchard island had several small farms, a pine oil plantation, and a fishery where grider creek flows into the big waters. the farms were abandoned and overgrown, the plantation in ruins, and only a few drying racks remained at the fishery ruins.

vida and i found orchard island’s vacant meadows awash with beautiful violets, daisies, trilliums and other colorful wildflower. large black-and-orange butterflies fluttered back and forth while we picked some wild strawberries and searched for the large brown eggs laid by wild farm chickens. at dusk, we harvested some apples in the old orchards leftover from long ago.

we fell asleep in each other’s arms at the orchard island lean-to while watching the distant stars sparkling like precious gem stones, and listening to the grider creek coyotes sing their nighttime love songs.

the next morning we arose early and were on the big waters without delay. almost immediately we spied the gigantic old lightning scarred pine, a rogue sentry identifying the entry for the tiny mala nada harbor inlet.

about 375 people lived at the mala nadda outpost. most resided in the village, while others lived in shacks and along the village periphery. most of those living in mala nada were people with empty lives, bitter and desperate beings with children often scattered and fending for themselves.

on the village limits the remains of a bridge came to a halt at the river of no return. this marked the boundary where the path that leads to the dark territories of no man’s land beyond mala nada began. there was sign attached to the old bridge foundation that said “death to outsiders.”

most of those living in mala nada existed only for the next jug of prune jack, the cruel and punishing weekend scrum contests, and dice games at spehar’s place or down in the shadows of the old wooden pier at the pointe.

before meeting vida and moving with her to the stone house at the cliffs on eagle island, i was engaged to an attractive mala nada girl named lynx. lynx’s mother, inglad, had run away one night and there were many at the pointe who swore they could hear her sobbing cries, as if she were a ghost witch lost in the wilderness beyond the river of no return.

turkoglu, lynx’s father, was a hard, cold man who spent his days drinking around the clock at the spehar house, quarreling with others over past scrum fights, dice games, and telling lies about his past hunting and fishing experiences.

vida and i stopped at the olav thorvald store and traded goat skins, eggs, and strawberries for some soft sugar that olav made from his stand of black maple trees. we also exchanged some orchard island brown eggs for salt and a few old fishhooks that pointe scavengers collected and sold to thorvald. i asked olav about lynx and how she had been. he replied that she had vanished sometime ago and hadn’t been seen around mala nada or the pointe since.

later we visited the brujo and traded some of our green stones, which we collected on our visits to greenstone island, for a few of the brujo’s firesticks. living alone on the cliffs, fire, especially in the winter, was very important. an emergency cache of firesticks was insurance and could possible save someone’s life should the worst happen.

the brujo was one of the few mala nada residents who had not given up on life’s possibilities and blindly fallen into self-hatred, nor had he become victim to violent mood swings as exhibited by so many of the locals.

visiting mala nada and listening to the stories told by the brujo was a very enjoyable experience. his favorite tale was how once, long ago, there was a massive stone bridge that stretched into a continuous rocky arch and connected the five islands of orchard, cemetery, greenstone, eagle, and lost goat to the pointe.

And too, the brujo frequently told of strange rumblings that he felt beneath mala nada, as though the small village rested atop an active volcano, or perhaps was occasionally visited by angry spirits.

the brujo mused at length about the dark continent beyond the land that time had forgotten, and the fate of those lost in the no man’s land after setting off for the unknown frontier. he also told of the abandoned factory on greenstone island and the mines, and a small greenstone island port called bard harbor that had completely vanished.

on the raft journey back to the cliffs and our stone house on eagle island, the wind picked up and the air turned chilly. vida wrapped herself in an old goat blanket to stay warm and dry from the big waters spray.

we did not stop again at orchard island, instead deciding to complete our journey to eagle island and return to orchard island another time and finish our harvesting on a fine rainbow day.

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BLACK LICORCE RAINBOW

eagle island

i awoke early this morning some time before first dawn streaked across the horizon and brought another day to the cliffs and stone house on eagle island. our visit to mala nada at the pointe yesterday had exhausted vida, so i decided to let her quietly slumber longer.

i sipped wild red raspberry tea steeped over last night’s cooking coals, while musing at the homemade hacky-doodle table that wobbled. it bothered me that i felt someone had been in our stone house during the time we were visiting mala nada on our trading mission. i felt an odd disturbance, as though a stranger had pilfered through our belongings. Lynx immediately came to mind and i wondered if it have been her, and if she might be planning some troubles for vida and me at the cliffs.

i got up and around quickly, as i was interested in doing some new writing while my brain was rested and might still possess some fresh, new ideas. carefully i etched haiku verses on flat dry oak leaves with red ink made from wild berries. later i would attach the poems to the poet tree, a stunted old pine at the cliffs summit overlooking the big waters.

my first day of writing after the mala nada visit was a good one. without pressing, one word flowed easily after another. as the blue of the early day arrived, i declared a finish to my early morning poetry writing.

i touched vida softly on the shoulder and whispered that i was going to hike to the “book works,” and would plan to meet her later at the springs. I hiked barefoot, on the trail that descended from the stone house summit through birch trees, a tag alder copse and a stand of tall green pines. a steady breeze blew through the pine boughs and the needles made a soft peaceful purrrring. i passed a row of wild rose bushes surprisingly in full bloom and picked a large red blossom to give to vida when we met later at the stream

the ruined remains of the “book works” revealed what once had been a most magnificent poetarium structure. it was a large building constructed out of flat red granite stones quarried from the small canyon of red rock facings on cemetery island. the “book works” had many great windows, most of which now were without glass. the empty windows looked from a distance like yawning black cave openings, except for the one where, strangely, a cracked glass light globe still hung from the ceiling. the “book works” had a large stone archway that led to a courtyard strewn with piles of eroding red rock rubble.

the books in the library had disappeared or rotted long ago; the only books that still remained belonged to the brujo in mala nada at the pointe. all that remained now was the sad cold empty reminder of a past civilization that had valued learning, before the dark times that followed the wars long ago the brujo talked about.

i met vida at the pond we had created by damming the small stream that flowed down from the cliffs summit. below the rock dam, the light water rippling made soft music for us to bathe in. we undressed, washed and celebrated out nakedness by making love in the warm gentle waters of the small pond. while we embraced in the sleepy river of our dreams, a spermy white film floated over the rock dam and disappeared in the dark waters downstream.

leaving the pond to dry off, it felt like an emergence from the depths of some great ecstasy. i possessed a warm feeling of silence and beauty, the rhythm of vida and my blood still throbbing with wet whispers continuing.

while we dried ourselves in the noon sun on the flat rock tailings beside the stream, i read to vida my earlier morning poems. when she fell into a short afternoon drowse, i quietly pondered my great fortune. i mused how lucky i had been to escape the affair with lynx and the suffocating existence of living in mala nada on the pointe. it seemed to me a miracle finding vida, a woman who refused to accept the cant and rituals parroted by those living in mala nada. i admired her determination not to join with those lost souls at the pointe and their continuous “if only” whining.

with vida as my soul mate, i had discovered the difference between being at one with myself, as opposed to living without vida and feeling lonely.

a short time later vida woke from her afternoon nap. both of us were still giddy from our earlier passions as we slowly gathered up our things and began the trek back to our stone house atop the cliffs.

before leaving the pond, we picked some watercress and leeks from the streamside and stowed some soft spaghem moss in our trail sacks. we hiked up the trail together silently lost in our own thoughts, and suddenly up ahead loomed the stone house and home. we lived in an immense jumble of rocks with huge slabs of granite providing the walls and roof for our cliffs dwelling. helping vida over the stony threshold, i felt like i had returned to a special and holy sanctuary, with the new haikus fluttering peacefully on the poet tree.

while the twilight dusk settled over eagle island, vida cut my hair and trimmed by beard. afterwards i tidied up the stone house with a broom made of bound twigs. the fine day and adventure with vida had put the mystery of lynx being on the island, and maybe in our stone house, to rest for the moment.

with the sun setting over the cliffs, vida and i dined on baked brook trout fillets garnished with watercress and fresh morel mushrooms. sleepily we discussed new adventures together, talking about the possibility of capturing a sea turtle from the big waters and having a grand feast on the eagle island beach.

as we prepared for bed and evening slumbering, i watched the fading firelight sketching vida’s naked flesh, her ghostly feminine shadows dancing on the dark rock walls.

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GOLDEN HONEY RAINBOW

cemetery island

while vida and i slept, a gale blew in off the big waters and it rained all night, with lightning streaking the skies and the dull rumble of thunder in the distance. we woke early to morning air fresh and sweet after the nighttime precipitation and made love before falling asleep again. we arose at mid-morning and were treated to a most splendid golden rainbow arcing over eagle island, its honey yellow hues shining with a blinding brilliance in the morning sunshine. vida found a rare violet colored trillium that had sprouted overnight near our stone house, and we observed a large brown eagle perched on a poet tree limb surveying the big waters horizon. We decided to celebrate the morning’s cliffs omens by declaring it a perfect day and concluded that we should do some private things.

i left vida to the stone house and places on eagle island and polled the raft over to check things out on cemetery island. while i was navigating the island strait, a large gray sea crane flew over the raft and followed me. i thought of the irony of just how i must have appeared from a view high in the sky, a mere whisper of humanity existing before the sun, moon, and passing seasons.

the big waters tides were calm and small waves quietly lapped on the cemetery island rocky shore as i beached the raft in the small lagoon at the edge of the island. above the reef and lagoon was a small pond that vida and i had constructed to store trout, and thus insure a steady supply of rainbow and brook trout meals. i set out a couple of trawling lines to catch an evening dinner of fish to boil with wild garlic. after releasing a warm high arc of straw colored piss that splattered on the rocky shore, i noticed what looked like fresh footprints in the shoreline gravel. immediately i thought of lynx and wondered if she had gotten to the island and if so, was she still here?

the cemetery was located away from the shore toward the center of the island. the trail to the cemetery was covered with dark shadows from rows of tall oak trees that stood guard like silent cemetery sentinels.

i had often visited to the island and cemetery and not necessarily to pay respects to the dead, but to allow my mind to be alone and quiet for a short while until it emptied out.

in the olden times the ancestors of the archipelago had immigrated to the various islands and engaged in a collective struggle to maintain community, raise families, work and survive the demanding elements. unless the charred logs on the island’s shore included the burned bones of past funeral pyres, the inland cemetery was where the island’s settlers had buried their loved ones.

during my trek to the cemetery, tiny snow sparrows played tag with me, flit-fluttering from tree limbs to brush twigs always staying just a bit ahead of me. i also heard the scuffling of ruffled grouse in the underbrush, as they scurried further back into the woodland sanctuary.

the cemetery was almost lost in a jungle of gnarly old trees bent by the storms winds and the constant struggle for sustaining light. the trees in the cemetery’s wilderness were the true survivors of the island.

browsing, i noticed the occasional bits of twisted iron railing that jutted out of the heavy undergrowth here and there. the inscriptions on the marble tombstones were almost completely eroded by lichen stains and the island’s lashing rain. once in a while i came across an iron cross marker and the rotting wooden remains from enclosures that once surrounded the gravesites.

close to the island’s cemetery was a small church that had been deserted for many years. the roof was gone and the windows were without glass. some time long ago vandals had visited the island and, possessed by black hatreds, had laid waste to the small cemetery chapel. i noticed an old iron stove in a dark corner of the church basement and thought, if vida and i could only get the stove back to eagle island, how would we ever haul it up to the stone house on top of the cliffs?

while wandering around the cemetery’s perimeter, suddenly a gust of wind arose and blew, whipping up dust and maybe graveyard ashes. once again, i wondered if lynx was near, watching me from the forest shadows.

on the other side of cemetery island stood the ruins of an old hotel and resort, a magnificent old three-story building with two ballrooms and separate fire places on the upper floors.

the firebird trail led from the island’s cemetery to the old hotel, however the path was an impassable dark thicket of brambles and thorns. vida and i had stayed overnight once in the hotel, using one of the fireplaces on the third floor for our camping site. we had to fight off the presence of bats and mosquitoes for a most uncomfortable camping experience. i thought that if we decided to return to visit the hotel again, we would take our raft around to the other shore of cemetery island.

suddenly i became aware that evening dusk had quickly turned into nighttime darkness. i made my camp out among the cemetery tombstones as a large full moon rose high and slid in and out of the scudding clouds. a light breeze came up, creating a nervous rustling of the dry leaves that made me wonder about the possible cemetery tricksters, witches, ghosts and maybe lynx lurking in the black shadows.

as I drifted off into a light slumber, i recalled a past conversation with the brujo during a visit to mala nada on the pointe. he had told vida and me that to understand and appreciate the wisdom of the ancients required learning the secret of the spirit of light. the brujo referred to the understanding of the spirit found in a full moon’s white rain, and also spoke about knowing the spirit at the core of a candle’s flame.

shortly after the drowsy musings, i fell asleep in the cemetery dreaming of vida and tomorrow’s reunion, my dreams providing the light for a blind hermit wandering alone at the edges of existence.

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EMERALD MINT RAINBOW

greenstone island

last night over our pillow murmurings, vida and i agreed that with time running short and the season of the long white rapidly approaching, we ought to replenish our trading supply of green stones. this morning we rose early and had a quick breakfasting at the stone house and then poled our raft to neighboring greenstone island. the winds were light and the big waters calm so our passage went smoothly.

we beached our raft on the shoreline near the old greenstone works. all that remained of the greenstone smelter and stamping plant was a vast expanse of gray concrete foundations. a lone cement smokestack rose in a far corner of the plant’s remains, the base hidden in the overgrowth of brush. i reminded vida to step carefully and not fall into one of the circular holes in the smelter’s floor and end up in the factory’s basement darkness.

looking back from the greenstone works along the far shore the remains of the greenstone island’s harbor could be made out. the wrecks of old wooden sailing freighters that one time collected cargoes of greenstones could still be seen. during low harbor tides, the ribs and keel-hull spines were visible rising out of the harbor waters. there were also large pine pilings left from the greenstone island harbor pier, which now resembled rows of silent gallows.

we paused for a quiet moment of thought at the smelter and i told vida that we were very lucky to live in the islands. i explained further that we shared splendid mysteries with the island ghosts, something that made our lives truly enchanted on most of our rainbow filled days.

i showed vida the ancient trail to the greenstone mine shafts and mountain summit that i had discovered on one of my solitary visits to the island. we trekked up the mountain path to the site of the old and abandoned deep mineshafts with tailings of greenstones behind them. we stopped at one of the mine shafts and dropped a small pebble into the empty opening, and it seemed like forever before we heard the faint distant click of the stone hitting the bottom of the mine. the mala nada brujo believed that on special magic nights the greenstone mine ghosts came out, and you could hear the voices of miner’s souls lost in the deep shaft accidents of long ago. with the sun racing toward a high noon position over our shoulders, we quickly rummaged through the mine tailing collection of precious greenstones for our future eagle island trading stock. after filling two small bags with stones, we left them at the mine tailings site and continued our hike to the summit of greenstone mountain, where we had our noon lunch and rested. after finishing a light meal of dried fruits, hazel nuts, and slaking out thirsts at a small mountain top seep, via and i made love. afterwards we drowsed on the flat mountain boulders with the warm noon sun shining overhead, as a tiny river of wetness trickled down the rock face and began drying.

while vida napped, i mused. dammit, i’d lived all my life for a moment just like this, and poet, fool wilderness bard, i’d never realized it. i reflected on how lucky i was to have found a creative loner like vida for a soul mate. vida most certainly was a wise woman who believed in the importance of loving and also of sustaining passion. Together, we had succeeded in re-colonizing the island’s wilderness, while keeping it pure and maintaining a peaceful harmony with the ghosts and wild animals.

suddenly the piercing shriek of a nearby mountain hawk awakened vida and quickly brought me back to consciousness. both of us, speaking in unison with excited voices, recalled what the brujo had recently told us. during the last visit and conversation with the brujo in mala nada at the pointe, a large sea eagle had flown over our picnic site on the river of no return. after the big bird had passed by and was just a tiny black speck on the horizon the brujo whispered, you know birds are holes in the heavens through which man can pass.

following that shared remembrance, we noticed that the sky had quickly darkened and an clap of thunder exploded nearby. the wind picked up, rustling the dry leaves and bring the scent of rain and the prelude to a grand greenstone island stormy symphony.

we quickly snatched up our gear and began hiking back down the greenstone mountain trail in fine rain that vida jokingly referred to as out “trysting mizzle.” we retrieved our collection of greenstones left at the tailings, and i led vida on a shortcut back to the greenstone works and ground level location. climbing down the mountain we connected with an old narrow gauge railroad bed and very carefully we crossed the remains of a wooden trestle, soon emerging in the cattails and wilderness growth at greenstone harbor.

by the time we had reached the harbor the rains had ceased and the thunderstorm had passed and was far beyond greenstone island. however, as the big waters were still choppy and it was rapidly becoming dark, vida and i decided to stay overnight and camp on the greenstone island beach.

as we collected dry driftwood bits and pieces to build our evening campfire, i told her it was very surprising that, after all of the ghostly myths surrounding the islands, we hadn’t heard the sounds of train whistles, the church bell on cemetery island ringing, or foghorn and harbor buoy noises.

we ate a late dinner of smoked goat and drank cups of sassafras tea, while watching dusk settle upon the big water tides. the gentle nighttime waves were carrying tiny agate stones farther up onto the beach, after which the after tow pulled them back into the shallows.

while we relaxed in silence, i wondered about the possibility of discovering the soul of a stone. the mala nada brujo had once told me that ancient sages believed that when a human died, his soul was possessed and lived inside a stone. if this were true, then the universe was a collection of men waiting to be raised by big water tides to share their past secrets with others.

as the campfire embers sparkled with a pale pink glow and began fading, i reached over to caress my sleeping vida. i felt the exciting moment of the electric sizzle of flesh touching flesh before falling into a soft slumbering in her arms.

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CHOCOLATE BROWN RAINBOW

orchard island

before falling asleep last night at the stone house on eagle island, vida and i discussed how the days were suddenly growing shorter. since the warm season was ending and the time of autumn colors drawing near, it was critical to harvest food for the larder to sustain us during the time of the long white.

rising in an early false dawn, we packed the raft with shovels, hoes, and sacks for the provisions we planned to acquire from the abandoned farmsteads on orchard island. the morning sky was a clear deep blue and the big waters lay calm, so we quickly poled the wooden raft across to orchard island and beached it on the shore.

we passed the old pine plantation and sawmill remains while hiking to the ancient farm locations. once there a flock of blue jays raucously announced our arrival to the overgrown farming fields. while checking out an old hand pump in the tall weeds, we found some clay bowls and drinking gourds, remnants from times past. we collected the bowls and gourds in our harvesting sacks to take back to the stone house. we also agreed that the pump would be a future project for next spring, something to ponder on over the coming winter.

first we gathered wild plums and thimbleberries, which we would dry in the sun on the flat rocks atop the clifffs on eagle island. we had traded several green stones for some light gauze material to cover the drying fruit, a swap with the mala nada magic woman, “kahlo” during an earlier visit to the pointe.

we tied sheaves of wild leeks, shallots, garlic cloves and large purple onions together. They would hang from the stone house ceiling to serve as a ready instant meal. as the day wore on we lugged sacks of wild carrots, red potatoes, and green squash back to load on the raft.

when vida and i first moved to eagle island and settled in the stone house i had dug a root cellar in a sandy clearing near the structure. with careful arrangement of our orchard island vegetable collection in layers of stream moss, they would stay well preserved and ready for dinners during the long winter times.

the days had begun getting dark earlier now, and working hard to harvest enough fruits and vegetables for winter and load them on the raft, vida and i decided to stay overnight on orchard island. that would give us good morning light by which to navigate back to eagle island, and quell worry about a possible accident happening on the big waters in the nighttime darkness.

while i was studying a pile of red pulpy mush on the path, the spoor of some wild animal, vida ran to me in the gathering darkness and told me of a strange encounter just experienced. she said that while carrying a load of squash back to the raft, she had seen the black shadow of a woman dancing with crows. according to vida’s tale, this dark apparition stopped at the water’s edge, turned around and waved and then waded out into the big waters until she disappeared.

simultaneously we both whispered: it must have been lynx. i told vida that if it was lynx, maybe she had decided to stop stalking us and return to mala nada. she could join with others like herself, people who were satisfied to complain about things but too fearful or lazy to do anything about them. it seemed very likely that lynx would join up with a man who was just as cold and cruel as she, one who would spent his days drinking prune jack and playing dice games.

the night clouds suddenly cleared away and our orchard island campsite was awash with the rays from a huge blood-golden autumn moon. i embraced vida and whispered i love you sweet lady, i truly do, and her quiet purr, i love you too poet, as lovely as the sound of any high mass benison.

staring into a campfire provided the same soothing emptying of my mind the i felt watching the big waters tide ebb and flow. as the coals turned to blinking, fading embers, i remembered the brujo once telling me: think about it graybeard poet, wood turns to ashes, but, ashes never turn to wood.

waiting for sleep to come, i watched the stars slowly edging across the horizon and wondered what else might be up there. i mused over the possibility of other aliens living on their distant exiled islands, or the existence of another god, celestial master brujo, maybe an our father shaman-ra.

i also thought about the soul of the big waters and wondered if a man sailed far enough beyond the islands would he find an uncharted continent. i mused if there could be new lands with different people and ways the truly adventurous might discover somewhere beyond the river of no return.

my eyes finally growing heavy and my mind drifting to sweet slumber, i fell asleep with the hoot-hoot-hooting of an owl nearby.

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CRÈME VANILLA RAINBOW

lost goat island

the winter winds arrived early and the trees began shedding their leaves after several days of freezing rain had blown in off the big waters. the strong gales created large waves that crashed and broke over the islands’ reefs, surging far up the shorelines. there were damp leaves strewn and matted upon the ground, and frost had left the trout lilies shriveled and brown until spring returned to the islands next year.

last night vida and i agreed that is was time to harvest a couple of goats for our winter stone house stock of food. early in the morning, as a pile of dark clouds rose out over the big waters, we poled our wooden raft over to lost goat island. we quickly trapped a couple of goats and then set to the hard labor of skinning and butchering them. from one goat we took a leg and hind-quarter to carry back to eagle island. we hung the rest of the goat meat in the ice caves on lost goat island, where the steady temperatures over the winter would keep the meat from spoiling.

after finishing our annual winter goat slaughtering, we perused once more the ancient drawings made on the ice cave walls during the forgotten times. we noted that all the characters etched by the ancient artists and scribes possessed the third eye that the brujo often talked about. the brujo of mala nada at the pointe believed that for anyone to divine the true reality of his existence, he had to master the art of viewing people and measuring events through the third eye.

after hanging the goat meat, vida and i decided that before we departed lost goat island and returned to eagle island we would hike to the old lighthouse ruins at the island’s far north end. during our trekking to the lighthouse i remarked to vida that, regardless of the shaman-ra, master brujo, ancient scriptures, runes, ritual hieroglyphics, or anything else, a person still had the basic responsibility to take care of himself.

during our hike to the lighthouse a stiff breeze picked up and began rattling the dead limbs in the older trees, making sounds like the eerie cries of lost goat island settlers’ ghosts. when we reached the stone ruins of the lighthouse, a light gray drizzle had begun to fall. vida stood at the edge of the rocky cliff on the north end of the coast and stared out into the foggy void of the big waters as if expecting to see a new world beyond the shore. her hair had become damp from the steady rain and soggy braids hung down almost completely covering her face. Suddenly, feeling like an old man standing in a cold rainstorm, i embraced vida with a warm hug. drawing her body close, i realized that i would never love vida more then this passionate moment.

the late afternoon wind had begun to blow harder, and we hastened back to retrieve our goat meat and raft and make the return voyage to eagle island. we poled the raft through ominous black swirling currents and reached the eagle island shore just as heavy dark clouds brought an early nightfall to the island.

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DOUBLE RAINBOW MORNING

cliffs

this morning vida and i woke to the rare surprise of twin rainbows hovering over the archipelago of islands. the rainbows radiated a brilliant array of different hues, with bright red orange, yellow and rich indigo ribbons casting a magnificent holiday aura. the morning also possessed that special aroma of snow in the air, and we were certain that tomorrow morning we would see the beginning of the season in the long white. i spent most of the morning writing and in the afternoon we did some snowshoe repairing. we also caulked the open spots in the stone house to help keep out the ice and cold and insure that we would be warm and snug during the winter’s passing.

like our splendid solitude of winters before, vida and i planned to spend our time cooking meals, making love, writing new haikus to attach to the poet tree, and taking short snow-shoeing adventures on days when the eagle island temperatures turned mild.

we were aware that all too quickly the snows would melt and vanish in the sun’s increasing warmth, as the days lengthened. very soon we would be dancing together to celebrate the arrival of another spring at the stone house on eagle island.

when the island snows completely vanished, i would return alone to my existential cemetery island retreat to contemplate again how much longer i would possess the energy to love vida and continue crafting poems to share with the island ghosts. these few days of solitary exile would provide me the opportunity to plumb the depths of my midnight soul.

i would wonder, during the quiet moments alone, if someday I might depart on a one-way journey aboard the wooden raft to discover what new worlds might lie beyond the big waters. or perhaps the poet's springtime respite might lead to thoughts that early one evening i would leap off the cliffs by the poet tree and soar to reach a hole in the clouds, through which i could fly with the birds to heaven.

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Picture inside back cover 14 mile lighthouse

Picture Outside back cover snow scene