Alligator Creek

Frieda Kahlo's palm tree is taller now. That's good news. Last time we were here it had been so neglected, I feared it would be dead by now. And being taller, most of the fronds are above the roof line. They're out of view but rustle more in the wind. It's a nice sound.

Molly and Swami on the screen porch.

And pops isn't dead either. We saw him this morning. He's looking skinny and spry as ever. And, again today, Sonny and his mom are back screaming at each other. He's big with the, "OH MY GOD! OH MY GAAAAWD! SHUT UP . . . knock this shit off!" He's got a cast on his arm. A drunken brawl or slip? Maybe Mom whacked him with a broom.

God, I'm awful.

Life on Alligator Creek 1

So, life at least on this little spot on Alligator Creek is same as ever. Comforting. Swami, Molly and I are in the screen porch. Is it "in" or "on"? 

Literary road dogs and Alligator Creek

Sunday - last day - Georgia to Florida

Forget Kerouac and Cassady. Perhaps, they were never really all that anyway. For this five day drive from Portland, Oregon to Florida's gulf coast, Rilke, Odysseus Elytis, Roy DeG., Galway Kinnell and Billy Collins have been our literary traveling companions. I should say Billy McCollins because, for all his admittedly delightful surprise poetic twist endings, and being a former Poet Laureate of the United States, Billy really is the Rod McKuen of the hour. Sorry Billy, but you know it's true. Anyway, their company has been, in turns, painful (Billy's same-ie sameness), lofty (Odysseus's romantic Greek modernism), electrifying (Rilke), heartbreaking (Galway) and delightful (Roy DeG.).

M. Lee, Roy DeG. & me in K.C.

When we got to Florida we turned off I-75 to gas up and found ourselves in an alternate Elmore Leonard universe and stopping at the Sarasota Trader Joe's we entered the alternate universe of "ageless" women sporting every implant known to modern and primitive man plus some double, perhaps triple, implants and lifts known only to aliens and Jersey surgeons before which we could only stand in jaw-dropped awe.

Monday - home - Alligator Creek

The old place looks good. Since we were here last, Frida Kahlo's pineapple palm was (finally) pruned. There was even a young squirrel in it this morning eating a nut! Surely, she is one of Frida's descendants. And, wonder upon wonder, Sonny Boy still lives with his parents across the street. He's been out in the screen porch all morning expounding to his mother about the fat epidemic, environment disasters, jail, death, work (which he does not) and a variety of other subjects as flocks of white ibises fly over the twittering, splashing mangroves on their way to the beach. In the last year, we've spent more time on Alligator Creek than "home" in Nevada. It's comforting to see that something of the world as it was still lives there.

Alligator Creek update

Florida.

I started this in the morning while sitting here on the screen porch drinking coffee but now it's night and I'm back and at it again, this time listening to an exotic cacophony of birds. And, though it's nearly full on night, billowy white clouds are still visible in the sky. As there are no city lights to speak of, I wonder if it's light reflecting off the Gulf? Anyway, we are back staying in the little shack on Alligator Creek. We got in about 3 AM this morning but I'm still on Pacific time so I'm not that tired plus it's really hot. It will take a few days to adjust.

As for South Venice, not a lot has changed. Seems Sonny Boy is still living across the street with his decrepit parents. At least this morning they were all out on their screen porch running it down to each other in very loud, very raspy voices. It was quite the lively discussion. Then a smoking car pulled up and he left and he's not back yet, or at least he hasn't assumed his usual post on the screen porch. Ah well. It's Friday night but I hope he still lives with them. I like hearing the drift of his phone conversations at night and seeing the glow of his laptop through the porch screens. Tonight, it's just me out here on this dead end street sitting in computer glow in the dark that has settled over Alligator Creek. But who knows what's going to happen next? Currently there's a hand-scrawled "4 SALE" sign stuck at a crooked angle by their mailbox. And no matter what, his mom and dad, though miracles of modern medicine, won't be around much longer anyway.

And so far I haven't seen one squirrel. It's only been a day but I have seen two hawks or one twice. When I was here last time this place was a frolicking squirrel playground then Frida was killed by a hawk. I'm afraid I upset the balance by putting all those peanuts out. Will I put peanuts out this time? Yeah. I suppose. Does that bother me? Yes, but I know I'll do it anyway. It's a conundrum. I know it's self-serving but I need/want to have wildlife around.

Other than that, Barky the dog and his family are gone. According to Zillow that house was foreclosed. It's really dark now and I don't see the clouds anymore nor are any birds singing.

As July deepens

We went to The Mango Factory out on Pine Island again today, Jack's mangoes. When it comes to growing mangoes, Jack made it an art. Back in '64 he planted his seedlings 33 ft. apart so that, full grown, each tree would enjoy full light. Today they're the best on the island. Hell. I'll say it. Best in the world, though we are dedicated to putting that idea to the test. So, with that in mind, we came home with a couple of bags of big, right off the tree, mangoes. Should last the week. Thanks, Jack.

Mango Jack.
What's not to love about this guy?
(picture on the wall at the Mango Factory)

Floridians are funny. Seems a lot of them don't much care for mangoes. Must be those shady backyard homegrowns. Anyway, there was a  good old boy and his wife also at the Mango Factory today. She was walking around the bins, basket on her hip, obviously excited to be at the source while he followed behind, arms folded across his chest, chin tucked down. She'd hold up a mango for his approval and he'd mutter, "I dunno", "You decide", or "I'm not gonna eat 'em". But there was also a fellow there from the Caribbean. He had the Eye. Lucky we got there when we did. Like us, he was stocking up.

Finally a couple of Ibises came by.
They like to graze the grass after a good rain.

As far as life on Alligator Creek is going, DD (Diego's Daughter) the squirrel and I have a nice little thing going but it's very low key. As you may recall, last time we were here, my everyday, all day peanut party turned tragic when the hawk noticed it so this time I'm doing things differently. DD has breakfast, a few peanuts, and that's it until late afternoon. At that point, if I'm on the screen porch, she comes up, looks me in the eye, quietly chitters a bit then goes back down, I follow, put a few peanuts around the Pineapple Palm, refresh the seed for the doves, and that's that. Simple. One other squirrel occasionally drops by which turns immediately into a skirmish but otherwise we have a quiet little scene going. Much as I'd like to be all things to all squirrels, I can't.

Tonight I'm sitting out on the screen porch as usual, the monitor brightness turned to the lowest setting. The frogs are chatting in the dark and the little guy who buzzes like a warehouse buzzer is buzzing back and forth with his friends and Sonny Boy just got back from wherever. He wasn't gone long. He took his mom's car which she didn't seem to be completely down with. He's 51 but you know how niggly parents can be. Usually when he does these little runs it's around midnight, I assume after they go to bed. Also, thunder continues to rumble in the distance and, between flash torrents of rain, guys along the creek are setting off their remaining fireworks. The last ones were directly across from where I'm sitting and just past the mangroves. I'm not wearing my glasses so they were especially sparkly and starry. If that was the last of it, it made for a grande finale. The mangroves are also occasionally back-lit by lightning which is nice and, after a week of really heavy rain, five times the average, Alligator Creek is beginning to smell rather heady, like a swamp.

Change, the only constant

Wrong again. Why did I think life on Alligator Creek would always be the same? Nothing is ever the same. I'm not saying things always get worse, or that they are, but they do always change.

For one thing, Thea Bella and her mom are here with us this summer. Thea is now seven and is, as always, a delight though she manages to kick my ass nearly every time we play Sleeping Queens.

Great Blue Heron
& the old man by the sea.

On the other hand, Sonny has been gone since the 4th of July. That changes things. He was Alligator Creek's version of middle-aged Florida Man; a 50 something guy who, after countless misadventures, had been basically living on his parent's screen porch . . . for years. When he got going with his wild stories of the past or absurd plans for the future, whether on the phone or to his mom, the whole neighborhood could hear him. It didn't seem to bother him so what the hell? It was fun listening. Is he gone for good? Who's to say?

On the other hand, I happy to note that the great blue heron and the old man are both still around (see photo from a couple of years ago).  I saw the old fellow on the ferry to the beach. He still goes early and leaves by noon. The great blue heron is a little harder to catch up with but the other morning I saw him fishing along his usual lonely stretch of beach.

As for the squirrel scene, since a hawk got Frida a few years ago, I keep that on the down low, no more all day peanuts. It's safer that way. I put some nuts and seeds out in the morning and that's it. It took awhile but eventually one squirrel discovered them and was my only guest for nearly a week, then it was two, now sometimes four or five come by briefly in the morning.

The cause of why

Day five - Tallahassee to Alligator Creek - 340 mi.

Swami watching the Ibis

Good to be back on Alligator Creek. Sonny and his mom are still living across the street though we suspect Pops may have died and, when we pulled up, there was a huge flock of young Ibis grazing between their yard and ours. We stocked the house with food and saw some friends and now we're tucked in for the night. Funny, but sitting for five days in a car watching the miles flash by was exhausting. Tomorrow Kristiana and Thea arrive.Woohoo!

The last of it

Rainy day on Alligator Creek.

There was an all night frog symphony last night on Alligator Creek. It was stupendous but forget about sleep. That giant sprawling tropical plant to the right of our poor little flood-locked mailbox is the frog palace/opera house. It's been raining like hell since yesterday. The drops are so big they're blops. And yes, thunder is rattling the house and the lightning is way too close. It's very unnerving since I learned that lightning can strike twice. I even heard about one guy around here whose house was hit three separate times. Once is enough! Everyone is laying low, even the lizards. I guess it's better that way. We leave in the morning. No more good-byes. I would like to say good-bye to the Gulf but it doesn't look like that's going to happen. I'm not done packing but this is the last of it. The hard part. The details. Then I'll clear out the screen porch where I spent all the lovely, buzzy evenings of summer, the sweetest with family, and that will be that. Done.

The last of it.

It wasn't much of a squirrel party this year but, hey, nobody died. I stuck to putting out peanuts and bird seed only in the morning and evening instead of randomly all day. A hawk did drop by now and then but the yard never became the big hunting ground like before. And, things being quieter, I had a chance to try out a little squirrel whispering on Dd. If you remember, she was the first one to show up after we arrived. I know. It sounds absurd, but actually it's not. Horses, squirrels, even people...the same principles work for everyone. Too bad I'm out of time. It was just beginning to get interesting.

One last screen porch wildlife rescue.

Frida's daughter and the old man and birds by the sea

Morning on Alligator Creek
another in my scintillating series of real life non-action vids
Life is good again on Alligator Creek. Sonny Boy was back on the screen porch this morning putting the record straight. I was beginning to worry when he didn't come home Friday night. It just wouldn't be the same without him. And the peanuts did disappear the same day I put them out. We saw her this morning up in Frida's pineapple palm, one little squirrel, surely Frida's daughter.

And we finally got out to the Gulf today and the old guy that the Great Blue Heron found so fascinating when we were here a couple of years ago was there today, sitting in his chair reading as always. The Heron wasn't around but I am going to assume he will show at eventually. The frigatebirds, known to stay aloft for over a week at a time, were there floating on the currents, the magnificent pelicans soared by and the water was 86°.

Mango Party!

Alligator Creek in pending rain at sunset

After stocking up on mangoes last Saturday, we had high hopes for the week but things got off to a rough start. Maggots. Our little plan to "follow the mango" sounds great, is great, but like everything else, you can't walk the walk without paying some dues. You want to go to the tree and gather in your own hands it's sweet, ripe fruit? Then you're going to pay some dues.

Mango Party!

Every night we have a mango party here on Alligator Creek. M. Lee halves two mangoes and it's a go. We start by gnawing the pits clean then move on to the custardy goodness of the mango itself. Only last Tuesday, one of the mangoes had a soft spot. Still, being newbies in the world of mangoes, we ignored it until M. Lee noticed that there were little squiggly things in the lovely orange flesh of the half mango cupped in his hands. Maaaaaaaggots! Okay. It was traumatic! Horrifying! Stupefying! Revolting! And for a brief moment, I feared that the dark shadow of trauma would taint my love of mangoes forever but come on! You can't let a few maggots get you down. They're going to win anyway. You know. In the end. It's not the mango's fault. It was a hard moment though. Our faith in Jack wavered, but only briefly. I'm sure he had a maggot or two in a mango now and then by the time he reached his feisty old age. Here's the deal. We've gotten lots of mangoes from the Mango Factory and they are, hands down, the sweetest, tastiest, most delicious mangoes around. So this one was overripe. No big deal. And besides, I wouldn't want a mango that a maggot wouldn't eat. I just want to get to it first.

Nightly no frills mango party

So, as the week rolled on, we got back into the spirit of things, slowly at first but we're back to full steam, though I do look now, something I never did in the past. I'm sure Jack looked too. It comes with the territory.

Venice update and happy hummingbird story

"A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people." --- Thomas Mann

(Even doing this nothing little blog post ended up being unwieldy and time consuming. I think I must be, above all, a puzzle person.)

Upon arrival the locals rushed to check us out.

We're back in Florida. We've been here for a few days but have mostly spent the time getting settled, which we are now, more or less. We rented a little house on Alligator Creek which is part of Florida's 8,000 miles of shoreline. Like a lot of places on the ICW (Intracoastal Waterway), the house next door has a great dock on open water, big fish swimming around the pilings. Ours does not. All there is, or all that's left of whatever there was, is a creaky lopsided walkway that deadends in the mangroves and is slowing sinking into the shallow, murky water. If there ever was a dock at the end, it has completely vanished. As it stands, it would be absurd trying to launch even a canoe from it. No big deal. The mangroves are better off without us mucking it up. The fish and birds aren't the ones leaving trash in water. What's extra cool is that at night I can hear the discrete splash of critters (alligators?) slipping into the creek. Never heard anything like that before. Plus the house is great. Very comfy.

Home sweet temporary home

Plus this neighborhood just happens to have a private beach on the gulf. Residents are shuttled across the ICU on a tiny private ferry which makes the crossing every half hour throughout the day. We haven't done that yet but we did walk down to the beach from Nokomis last fall just to check it out. The best part is that it's a turtle nesting beach, mainly loggerheads. Of course, there's not much to see but it's not about us, is it? I just hope they survive human encroachment. But this stretch of coast is pretty mellow.

Anyway, here's a feel good video for your viewing pleasure. Falconers think they've got it going on but check out this fellow. And if you like the video be sure and read the full follow-up kandwarf posts in the description. Very cool.

Road's Eye View

Amid the thunder, rumble, pops, crackles, rips, hisses, thuds, cracks, bangs, shots and blasts exploding all around Alligator Creek tonight for fucking hours now, the cacophony of Fourth of July firework celebrations complete with fragments of a late night drunken domestic argument drifting across the creek, there are creatures in yard, I don't know what ... frogs? ... insects? ... I can't tell, telegraphing each other through the now dark ... extended, one note buzzes and someone, a bird perhaps adding a tuneless, usually descending one note, whistle. Are they assuring each other that it will be, they will be, okay? I'm here. I'm here. We're okay. I don't know but it seems like it.

Gustava Santa Ana for the Anthropocene

Gustava Santa Ana in his jail cell
Patron Saint of the Lost and Forgotten
Antigua, Guatemala

Amid the thunder, rumble, pops, crackles, rips, hisses, thuds, cracks, bangs, shots and blasts exploding all around Alligator Creek tonight for fucking hours now, the cacophony of Fourth of July firework celebrations, and the shouted refrains of a drunken, late night domestic argument drifting over the creek—

there are creatures outside—more than I know—frogs—insects—alligators—telegraphing one another through the blighted dark—croaking—buzzing—an occasional growl—and a bird repeating a tuneless descending one note whistle. Perhaps they are assuring each other that it will be, they will be, okay?

I'm here . . . I'm here . . . we are still here . . .

Future histories tonight and as the century wears on

If you haven't read Jeff Goodell's article in Rolling Stone do. Goodbye, Miami is a must read. And it's not just about Miami or coastal cities. In the overall, it's a peek at the future history of human life on earth.

As for what's going on tonight here on Alligator Creek, lots of ambient sound though traffic on the nearby through street is beginning to settle down at last as is the white noise whoosh of the Tamiami Trail and, just as different sections of an orchestra rise then give way others, the occasional sound of an AC unit snapping on in this, or one of the other two inhabited houses on our dead end street, punctuates the air or the sound of voices or a dog barking in the distance drifts across the water and the squawks and chirps and rhythmic buzzing in the mangroves rise and fall and night settles down around the Gulf and turtles begin crawling up out of the sea to dig their nests and lay their eggs, I notice the sound of palm fronds stirring in the breeze. Eventually I'll hear the gurgles, slaps and splashes of the creek talking to itself and aquatic beings moving through its water.

Sonny morning

Sonny was in fine form today though, at this point, his morning screen porch screed has burned down to a mumbling amid the trilling, twittering and whistling of the birds. Pops is out working in the yard. He is skinnier than ever and probably more fit. I think he's the one who put our mailbox door back in the box yesterday. It's been broken forever. I tried taping it last time we were here but it didn't stick. Maybe this year, I will actually spring for a new box, if they don't cost too much.

It's day three here along Alligator Creek, or at least I think it is. I've lost count. The only thing that's missing now is the squirrels. Frida's daughter did show up but hasn't checked today. She needs her own name, perhaps that of a Mexican poet. It will be a chance for me get acquainted with writers I don't know because, of course, this will require extensive research.

Snoring bird

A bird is snoring somewhere out along Alligator Creek tonight. It's a soft chittering sound. Maybe birds don't snore. I don't know. I don't care. In my mind's eye I see a bird napping in the mangroves, head resting on its chest, beak nestled in its feathers, snoring away under the remnant of this year's Harvest Moon. Even two nights later, it was about the biggest, orangest moonrise I've ever seen. I wonder if birds dream about the moon.

Blasted

19:30 GMT
Just now Swami, Minerva and I had to come in from the screen porch. Rain is getting my laptop wet. This is only the second evening since getting to Florida that we've been inside. I don't like it a bit I can't afford to ruin another computer.

21:59 GMT
I'm posting this from my phone. It's very quiet around the house now. M. Lee is getting up early to do a Metric Century so he's already sleeping. Swami, Minerva and I are still inside. The storm fried the router and the modem so no internet. It was fast and furious.

A low pressure center settled over Cancun, squished the topical storm brewing there and spewed it out over the Gulf, or so says Weather Underground. A wisp of that must have made it up to Alligator Creek. Something did anyway. And it dropped two, count them.....ONE.....TWO..... bolts of lightning right on our little cracker shack. Holy FUCKING GOD!

The house is on stilts and the lightning dropped below the upper level. I swear I saw it possess my computer screen for a moment. I know that's impossible but my new theory about lightning is that, like rainbows, it has an aura surrounding it as well as being the "thing" we see with our primate vision. Anyway...TWO...

BAM!!! BAM!!!

My teeth could have exploded right out of my head and it wouldn't have shocked me more. There was only enough time after the first blast to babble and huddle together before the second bomb exploded somewhere between us and Frieda's Pineapple Palm (which touches the house). Did I say Holy Fucking God?

And then it was over but for the rumbling and the rain. Now frogs are happily croaking outside in the lagoon otherwise known as the lawn.

Mockingbird Arias for Autumn

It's a warm, sunny morning here on Alligator Creek and just this moment a mockingbird, perched on a frond in Frida Kahlo's pineapple palm, is singing her wild heart out. She's doing it all, from "Pretty Bird" to never-to-be-written Arias, one replacing the other with equal speed. Today is the Autumn Equinox, that brief moment when light and dark are equal. Now the days grow shorter and the night long.

Morning after the storm before

A frog is happily chirping under one of the palm trees this morning. Doves are cooing in the trees and all across Alligator Creek birds are twittering in the mangroves. I even hear traffic coming from where giant green lightning flashed last night and yes, I'm here listening to it all from the screen porch which I'm currently sharing with some nasty little no-see-ums who must have squeezed in last night to get out of the storm and also survived to see another day. That is all.

FiveOWriteO

The term came out of one of those word jazz sessions Kristiana, M. Lee and I were having the other day, at my expense. At the time it was FiveOWriMo. Later I changed it to FiveOWriteO or its colloquial fiveowriteo. Of course, both are based on the now famous NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) which has, over the years, kicked a significant number of people off their duffs to take the plunge, resulting in huge gobs and boatloads of words getting launched during the month of November and some manuscripts actually becoming published works of whatever. Even I managed to assemble 50,000 words one November spurred on by the collective frenzy. Don't ask. The deal with FiveOWriteO is to write for five minutes everyday, one day at a time. Of course, a commitment to write five, f-i-v-e,  5 little minutes a day will only be of interest to individuals suffering from writer's block, which includes me. "Writers write, Owen" . Smirk all you like, writer's block is a drag. So, of course, the important thing about a FiveOWriteO is the word "write" because write is a verb.

And yes, I've been telling myself for years to set a daily time and write. I used to tell myself to write four hours a day. When I failed at that I lowered the time to two hours a day, that became one, then one half-hour, which worked until it didn't.

I've been doing my fiveowriteo for about a month now and have gotten quite attached to this little morning interlude. God, that must sound so pathetic. I am embarrassed to discuss it, even here, but now Roy at Blogorahma has upped the stakes and started occasionally posting his five minutes worth (thanks a lot, Roy). His, of course, are good. Mine are not and they are really short but, these days, I'm grateful to be writing at all so, in the spirit of fun and fair play, I am posting this morning's fiveowriteo.

It's hard to make a beginning without a starting point. I do not have one. I start over and over from the middle of nowhere. Is it some kind of twisted snobbery to forego a beginning? A foundation? An idea? The spiral continues its twist. Over and over, Billy (Collins) starts at his window. It is not his privilege alone, something he himself makes abundantly clear. "The poets are at their windows." And I am at mine only, for now, my window is the screen porch.

I am sitting in my screen porch. It is morning. The black birds are at work on the peanuts and seeds. It is 2:26 PM in Addis Ababa. I have never been to Addis Ababa but have wondered about it since I was a child. I leave the porch and wander the shade of its narrow, winding, packed-sand passageways which open occasionally onto bazaars filled with wares and food of every description. The whole scene is ablaze with color and swelters under makeshift canopies and tents and throbs with a cacophony of voices, braying, cawing, banging and music. People look down on the scene from tiny balconies attached to brightly painted buildings.

And then I am back on Alligator Creek with the dive-bombing black birds who, in the time it took to visit Addis Ababa and return, snatched all the peanuts from under Frida Kahlo the squirrel's memorial pineapple palm tree before the squirrels arrive.

References:
Friday by Roy deGregory
Monday by Billy Collins

The Cheap

I've been meaning to write about this for awhile then, after Alligator Creek Update, Don from In A Perfect World asked about finding cheap getaways in real neighborhoods with real people, i.e. places to write. Always the question, isn't it?

This place showed up on craigslist and it's a GREAT deal, half off because it's the low season. Traveling off season is one of the key elements for us to be able to do what we do, plus renting via P2P sites like AirBnB and VRBO. Lucky for us all, it's worldwide. We get cheap places with kitchens and mostly cook variations of the Caribbean diet...rice, beans, veggies, sometimes a little fish or cheese, oatmeal for breakfast, sack lunches, leftovers for dinner. That kind of thing. We drove to Florida but otherwise we use public transportation and walk ...all easy on the pocketbook. Also we avoid "nice" restaurants, coffee shops and fetching little sidewalk cafés plus neither of us drink or drug which keeps expenses down. Mostly we live like the rest of the neighborhood except that I go to open mic poetry events but they're free and, of course, internet is essential. Okay, a lot of this is lifestyle but, for us, P2P rental is essential. Did I mention we don't skydive, zip line, shop, ride elephants etc. etc. You know. Cheap.