And I've not spent all my time here writing. Most of it has been spent sitting on a rock watching the water, watching the sky, stars, clouds, sky. Cleaning out my belly button in the sun. Listening to Radio National on my mobile phone. Thinking about my life, how to let things slide off me, how to get laid, how to be a better person. Making coffee. Picking my toenails. Singing to astounded, smelly seals. Crashing through waist high scrub. Falling down muttonbird burrows. Looking at rocks. Wondering how the island was made. Watching the water ...
I discovered that five days existing outside with very little shelter means you can watch the water and the sky all around the non-existent clock, track the sun and the moon and the stars, watch the light change on the water and see the subtle difference in the swell that rolls in from the East, the way it curls around granite and sucks in deep, readying itself for the next surge.
Counting the flashes of the lighthouse, her solar powered glow the same yellow as the rising moon. Finding a green penny, Queen Victoria. 1892.
Watching the schools of fish tracked by the petrels and the turning wind that stands up waves and turn the tips all creamy. A loose piece of tin. Eating that plain brand fruit cake 'til I tripped out on sugar. A rock that rocks (klonk) with every rush of water. Lichen. Learning it.