In Closing

It is a new year, I am in a new house, and have found myself in a domesticated partnership, of all things. I stopped writing here a few months ago- sometimes change comes so fast, you don't have time or energy to chew it over in cyberspace.

The longer I went without posting, the less relevant this blog seemed to be. In order to get back to writing, I needed a change that reflected the changes in my life.

So for anyone who wants to follow, the general wandering and wondering will continue at Letters from the Saltbox. I'll continue to live on an unbridged island so you won't have to...

Thanks to those who read.

Sea Change

Yesterday in the store I was accused of "not being around much." The day before that, someone had commented "so you're back for a couple of days?"

Harsh words indeed!

But fair, entirely fair. I have gone to ground here, in a period of intense transition. New job, new housemates, new cats, new relationship, new role in the community. No longer am I a Fellow, with defined projects and the understanding that I show at every public event. Now I am just a resident. Now I have to choose the projects and make the meaning of my life.

So I have been around. Quite literally, I have been around the island's loop of a roads multiple times, making my way on a thick-wheeled scooter. I have wandered in the woods, have holed up in my house. But no. I have not been as visible as once I was. Less walking to the post office and store, on view to the other islanders. Library hours are still held on the accustomed Wednesdays, but I work off-island those days. In fact, probably people mostly see me at the town landing, getting on or off the mailboat. Always in transit.

The community I spend the most time with now is my family, when I am off-island on overnights due to my work schedule. And even then, I am a little vacant.

This October, I have been off-kilter. Not particularly present. Here it is the 18th, and this is the first post I have written, indeed the first thing I have written (beyond email) for ages. Guiltily, I must confess my absence more or less coincides with Dave's. I made it through two years here with no best friend, but now that I have one and he is away, I've gone dormant. Not that life is without its little solaces, but oh, I seem to miss my crankiest crony. Nothing seems profitable when I can't twist it about in words to make him laugh. Likewise, what day is a good one when I can't walk up to him with my customary demand "tell me stories!"

To this sorry state of affairs, I say humbug. All you people out there who eat swordfish had better REALLY enjoy it.

The Subconscience

Oh, dreams. I often remember them, much to the detriment of people who breakfast with me. Because I also have to talk about them. Vivid dreams often come in waves, and I am currently caught up in such a surge.

I seldom dream about men I am involved with, but Dave has done his share of turning up, both in person and by proxy. The circumstances of involvement with him are typically strange and complex- this is, after all, a relationship on Isle au Haut. He is still married, though (as it were) only by a legal thread; he doesn't have the money to buy his wife out of their house, and as it stands now they have functioned as housemates for the last three years; they've a daughter, my former student, who has now begun her first year of high school, boarding in New Hampshire.

One does not grow up with the expectation of dating a married man. At least I didn't. Sure, my grandmother might have set the pattern, but it wasn't one I expected to follow. As Dave and I got to know each other over the summer- first because our cafe schedules were similar (later I learned that maybe he attended first thing in the morning in hopes of seeing me), and then because I began working with him on his boat- the island grapevine was a live wire. Getting to know someone under the small town microscope was desperately uncomfortable, and even more delicate an operation because of his daughter's presence. Abigail, amazing girl that she is (very much her father's daughter), took it in stride. When they first discussed the relationship Abigail was a bit shocked by the age difference: "But Dad- Morgan's only 29!" Which was followed by "But I really like Morgan." It was at Abigail's request that she, Dave, and I went out hauling together, and after that day she decided "I really like you and Morgan together." The community seems to agree, and people will comment to me about how good Dave now looks, what with being happy. His wife also told him that living with him is a lot easier. When she went off for a weekend with her boyfriend she left us a lobster galette- with strict instructions that Dave was not to take credit for making it.

So as extramarital affairs go, this one's about as moral as it gets.

Yet.

The night before last, I dream that I was having an affair with the happily married boat captain, who has a two-year old daughter. Do I want to have an affair with Garrett? No. And in my dream I kept thinking, "Hold the phone, I am not interloping on a happy marriage! Something's not right here. This is the wrong married man... I could have sworn things were kind of kosher. Shit- is this my life?"

And I woke up. It was not my life. Exactly.

It seems my subconscious is a moral absolutist when it comes to conscience, even if I am living by the standards of island relativity.

It also tends to nettle me about other character flaws. Flaws, Morgan? Not you! Okay, tendencies that others might deem "worth working on."

So Dave's leaving to go swordfishing, right? In another dream I am back at Grinnell, out in the loggia, which is crowded with people. Dave comes up to say goodbye to me, and I give him a quick kiss on the cheek and send him on his way, because One Ought Not Be Emotional in Public. He leaves, and I immediately miss him, and want to give chase to say a better goodbye. Suddenly, however, I am nekked. So it is either go back to my dorm room, get proper clothes and possibly not be able to catch him up, or run through the crowd heedless of my state of undress. In classic Morgan fashion, I just dithered, torn between the two until I woke up. Oh dear- afraid of vulnerability I let the moment slip away! Such emotional cowardice!

Dear dream factory, please stop with the obvious constructive criticism and symbols. It's lame. I know that I've been spending my days working with high school freshmen who are reading The Outsiders, and that the analysis is pretty basic, but come on. Nudity? A little subtlety, please. And perhaps fabricate a dream that is not a lesson in strict adherence to the Commandments, whether set forth by Moses or Oprah.

To Ride a Mailboat

So here we are. A year after I started writing in earnest, a Friday in mid-September.

Today has gone overcast, cold, raw. I am in thermals, in the cafe. The latter emptied out shortly after I arrived, and now I am being left to my own devices so that Alison and Kate can catch up on dishes. I have my hot cocoa, my computer, and am seldom demanding. Dave is the vocal, sassy one, and he is away.

I myself have been off-island for what seems like ages- four days. In those four days, a barge with a massive crane has moved in and set up shop to build a new town landing and tear down the old. Another week of school has passed. Store hours have changed, though only slightly- it is now closed Sundays, which is a much kinder measure than I expected. I had heard rumors they were immediately making the draconian cutback to winter hours- Wednesdays and Saturdays, from 2:30-4:30. The Dark's dad is preparing to float a house from a nearby island to this one. He is also going to haul the salvageable bits of the burnt house to his property. He collects houses you see, the way some of us collect teacups, or ships in bottles.

I got much of this news on the mailboat- we don't have a newspaper, primarily because we have mailboat captains. In Stonington, the dock was thickly dotted with tourists, or variations on the theme. Using my last cellular gasps before AT&T's coverage died, I told Dave of my hope that I was loved enough to be allowed to board ahead of the herd. If only, I moaned, love was measured in days per year spent on the island. Hands down, I would be the most well-loved person on the landing. My call was then interrupted by the woman who does the directing of the traffic- lo and behold, she was having me board first. It was a courtesy to the person who knows the ropes and wants minimal contact with unbridled enthusiasm, confusion, and cameras.

When the boat is scantly filled in the autumn or early spring, when the tourist traffic is thin, I often fall into conversation with people coming out to visit. When they gather that I live on the island year-round, they get a hopeful light in their eyes, and the questions begin. Generally, I am happy to answer. For all that Mainers are depicted as taciturn to the point of rigor mortis, it's kinda nice to play welcome wagon. To pay attention because it hasn't been demanded. I talk about the demographics, about how we pass the winters, I point out the landmarks of town such as they are, and tell them about how I landed here. I talk about hiking trails, and discuss the merits of Black Dinah chocolates; I tell people the store hours. Telling the story of life here passes the time nicely, though on occasion I feel a bit like a monkey at a zoo, or one of the Inuit on display at the world's fair back in the day: behold an "exotic!" Oh well, by and large it is a fun role to play. If I didn't love talking about life here, I wouldn't be writing this.

Today I spent the ride sitting on the threshold of port-side door, next to the wheel, away from the Madding crowd. This mid-day run was on the Mink, the boat company's plain Jane winter/freight boat: the Mink is a far cry from the cold, sleek Miss Lizzie- she of the showy bow and roof seating, tailored to summer numbers and tastes.

In close quarters with the wheel, I caught up with Garrett as he steered. He'd just had his two days off and was intrigued by what island goings-on had gone on while he was gone. Still, he had newer info than I. He told me about the plan to float the house, we made note of the excavator out on that small island as we went by; I told him about my cousin's engagement. We discussed the process of razing and building the new town landing. Becky, the deckhand, offered me the last mini-whoopee pie from a batch she'd secured from my neighbor.

It is always a pleasure, whether the boat is packed or empty. Whoopee pies or no. Life here is such a mix of Springfield (goodbye, Guiding Light!) and Mayberry, there's bound to be something to chew over. And when I am not in the mood to talk, there is always the scenery. Even if the scenery consists of fog meeting the water three yards off the boat.

Coffee and Cats

Woke early this morning, to Facebook "have a nice trip" (Dave and Debra are taking Abigail off to school) and to go check on the library. Miraculously, the plaster is still holding- though who knows for how long. Let the boys, Pepe and Vaca, out of the master bedroom suite so they could have the run of the house. I keep them separate from Janey during feeding times and at night; the past couple of nights I slept with them, both lined up long and warm against my side. Last night I slept in the front bedroom, with Janey who I cajoled to come upstairs with food. Once she saw me all tucked up in bed with 5,000 pillows, she condescended to curl up on my hip while I read.

Domestic relations of the feline variety have been...difficult. It is safe to say that my living room is now a conflict zone- I have a couch that growls low in its throat, and occasionally emits a fluffy grey cat with a scream like a panther. If I didn't occasionally shut the boys off in the master bedroom, I fear Janey would never come out of hiding. Vaca more or less keeps his distance, but Pepe is fascinated by the beast under the couch, and just cannot resist her. As soon as the boys have free range, he cautiously makes his way to the living room and approaches the couch. The couch rumbles, a storm brewing low to the ground. Eventually he gets within range and she lashes out. And there are prolonged periods of yowling, she provides the low notes, he the high, and once in a while they meet in furious harmony. Neither will physically confront the other, so after much verbiage, they have no alternative but to walk away: she retreats back to the shadows of the sofa, he to go jump up on a high surface from which he can knock something.

After a few days, these interactions have taken on the tenor of a turbulent courtship. This morning, as I drank my coffee and read a gothic novel (Elisabeth Ogilvie's Bellwood), I watched him approach the couch. To my surprise, just over the arm of the couch, I could see a pair of shapely grey ears. Janey had in fact stayed in repose on the couch, rather than scurrying under when she heard the warning bells on the boys' collars. Pepe slowly, soooo slowly, made his way up to the arm, making no sudden moves. I waited for the uproar.

Pepe placed one paw on the arm, and keeping his head low, peered over.

No growl.

Both front paws up on the arm, he waited.

Shifted his weight, moved one hind leg up in slow motion.

Found purchase. Paused. Pulled up the fourth leg.

No response.

He had gained a foothold. The high ground even. But he kept his head down.

He was within 18" of her. And they sat. It was at least a full two minutes before she turned to him to register her displeasure. There was no yelling this time, only strong words, and eventually she told him to bugger off, and went under the couch: he retreated back through the kitchen, gave me a look that said "women!" and went upstairs.

And so it goes. A day ago, I despaired of them ever reaching any sort of peace, but at last, here's a little hope. Pepe is the unsinkable sort, persistent and absolutely genial, the picture of complete confidence. She will not be able to beat him, so I suspect eventually she will at least tolerate him.

A Million Words for Melancholy

It might as well be winter. Or hard on the heels of winter, anyway. Just got in from a wild drenching hike to Trial Point, not unlike the one back on that day last November- the Walk to the Whale. I am lucky it is not colder than it is, or I would have had to have come back sooner: if not sooner, sicker. Hypothermia and I have a long standing flirtation.

Tonight however, I come home to an empty evening. Well, not entirely empty. There are the three cats. There's the chore of checking the drip buckets in the library, and emptying them, and seeing how much of the ceiling is coming down. I need to feed myself, and get warm. 8:19 in the evening and it feels like 11 o'clock. It's the dark you see, the long looked for dark, that is closing in. Which was why it was good to finally get outside again- walking. Have spent a lot of time on a boat of late, sterning; yet as much as I truly love being on the water, it doesn't exorcise my soul the same way as thousands of ravenous strides through the tangle of woods and across the strand.

Trial Point was a clusterfuck of traps from Hurricane Bill. Found one of Dave's buoys still attached to a trap, got it untangled from the rocks and another man's warp, then dragged it inland, out of reach of Tropical Depression Danny. Found the other trap in the pair well away from its mate: after parting it, the storm surge had thrown it well beyond the tree line, into the grass. Both traps were miserably mangled- but not the worst I'd seen along the way.

Walking, I'd plenty of time to chew over life of late. Am in a period of intense transition, from job to job; from Fellow to plain ol' resident; from friend to love, of sorts. I have become a person of interest now that Dave parks his truck in my driveway- and living in town, there is no escaping the eyes outside the fishbowl. The companionship has been nice (I prefer emotional understatement, you know), though the strings attached are substantial. When settled warm in his arms, there's the comforting knowledge that he is fully glad to have me there. He has other things to attend to, and the timer is always going, but he is not itching to be gone. Unfortunately, gone is what he will often be. So it goes...

It occurred to me in conversation with him today, how lax my vocabulary is in terms of mechanical jargon. Bumper, fender? There's a difference, I am sure- since Dave shook his head at me- though off the top of my head, I don't know what it is. I'm slowly picking up on more lobstering lingo, though it's like a foreign language, and I can only yet make out a few words, here and there. But as I walk, I compose, and on this page I am as confident as these men are on the water. The mechanics of the automobile, the boat, the winch? No. My verbiage is vague on those accounts. The feeling of a storm, the kind that can wear you out at your core, make you want to cry with the clouds? I can occasionally get a hook into that.

Neither-Nor Nights

This is the first evening I have spent alone in the house in what seems like forever. I love solitude, but I forget the shock of it. It feels once again like last fall, when I no longer had to keep running off-island for Institute-related events, etc... I'd also taken a week of vacation off- in part to go to a friend's wedding, and in part to break up with Prasanth- I came back a free woman and relieved, but for a while my evenings seemed empty. The feelings left- I ended up doing a lot of walking and writing- nonetheless, tonight there's hint of that listlessness. The barking dog and the owl agree.

I should have wandered it out of my system before dark, but instead I finished a book, one with an abrupt ending, which did nothing but make the evening odder. Now I need to choose: move on to another book to pass the time, clean, or venture out. How very odd it is to crave society. Especially after all the time I have spent with people in the last two months. Normally on nights like these when I am all unsettled, I like to go out and just see that someone is being social- summer is good for that, with all the houses ablaze with light and loud with voices.

I should be writing to a purpose, but I feel unfocused. Awful Neither-Nor Nights- when nothing seems quite satisfactory.

Oh well, I will find some sort of escapism until I can reasonably go to bed, so to wake at an early hour, caffienate, and take on the day.