Staring at the blue light abyss of cobalt tragedy glowing in my hand. It’s like every second of the day should be filled with something. Work is work which means walking or sweeping through halls, mop and bucket, stop and talk, pause to send an email, a brief wander in the wind, the sun bearing down on the bearing we hold these days — a little collective rock moored to the sea floor; let me tell you about going back to school and finding life on a small, brutal, beautiful, beaming island that could be barren, but boldly builds regardless.

In a small place, like the bottom of a whisky glass, where a large cube of water in a solid state rages and cracks against the warmth of single malt. Over time and after a few chapters and delicate sips, the colors grow from bronzean-gold to a clear-ember and the flavor slips farther into the dirt and gains such a delicate softness that it truly is pleasant to drink, if not for its effects, then for the story it softly sings to the tongue. Which, in this case, brings muddy stepping-stones in a pouring rain — the warmth of a hearth — grandfather settles a small glass of water on the old chair, a bottle of scotch in hand, delicately pours a drop into the opaque ceiling patiently waiting for him to sip.

The body is full of all sorts of things. Livers. Brain. Heart. Wonderful armaments held within this shell of flesh and bone, pale in the moonlight, glistening beneath a waxing orb. Witness our false love’s tremendous traverse of these plains. God, I wanted to die. I thought it would solve everything! The little joys of life fading as teachers and friends become memories and the world screams a howl to make the heavens shatter. I desire to hear a solid argument for free will and then a fit of giggles blows an elemental warmth of forgiveness.

The States disappear beneath me. Four wheels over black and gray, white and yellow both dotted and double, the years tick by. Notebooks and threats to write a memoir are met with the emptiness of a long wait. The notebooks end up in a storage unit, locked inside a plastic bin, tucked behind a bicycle and a half dozen book shelves, crawling with books rarely touched in years. And I’m off, onto a plane for a new start at a career I never knew existed and yet when I think back on it, it’s mind boggling that I never figured it out sooner. I teach sailing. I’m a sailor, a teacher, a writer.

I drew up little plans. A maker’s space, a classroom, a boatyard — but not really. Two shipping containers, a couple solar panels, some tools to build a roof and a cistern. How to get water and power to anywhere and create a space to fix and build little sailboats and if that’s all possible, then teach kids how to do it all too. The idea was ravenous but still unattainable. So I applied for a job in Chicago, Virginia, Mexico and then quite suddenly I was packing my bags. What I didn’t know about the school that hired me, or the little island I was moving to, was how closely it resembled all of my dreams.

This is the life we’ve all been waiting for. Heartache poet of the unknown. The boy who lives. And what I’ve learned reading book after book is all that I’ve forgotten. All it seems to take is one word at a time. So here I am. Mixing potions myself these days. Ajax bleach and barkeeper’s friend spread like cocaine across the countertop, a splash of tile de-molder and soft scrub over the top and the rag rubs the sink, the oven, the wretched surfaces beneath and nothing too magical happens except the most magical thing of all, I’m doing something. The chores stack up, the gutters leak still, the driveway blooms bamboo and their skyward dreams.

Nestled on the hillside, surrounded by immense green, the mountain shack offers solitude and ever since the internet went out, a slower life. My thoughts are coming down. Distance grows and the wild videos, reels, streams of +/− information dilute until the world I can touch, smell, and hear is twiddling, chirruping, the birds and insects and their morning song. A bamboo branch leans in gust and squeaks another trunk. A clock ticks across the room, four hours and fifteen minutes fast. And the desire, of hearing these little hunt and peck finger’s drumbeat flurry.

The fact that life unrolls and unfurls its raveling string in such a way that it feels like the first time, means I am, and therefore you are, equally adept at living a first draft. The environment is harsh and everything must be taken care of. There are no days off. Just the rise and fall of stars, some much brighter than others. “A piece of art is the surface expression of a life lived within productive patterns.” Such an argument will prove my art to be fragmentary, hidden and luminous, a heavenly shore break.