The Cycle of Sunshine

It was roughly 10 years ago, near Christmas, when I braved a snowy Boston train ride to the airport. I was on my way to southwest Florida, supposedly stopping in Atlanta on the way. When I arrived I saw that Hotlanta was covered in shitty weather...so I figured I'd talk to a desk agent to see if I needed to be on a later flight, or something. (Remember, this is in the innocent flying days) This man looked at me bewildered and said "why don't you take the non-stop flight?" Next thing I new I was at my destination earlier than thought. While I could have been stuck in line at some belly-busting airport "cafe," instead I sat in a hot tub, viewing the sun setting into the Gulf of Mexico. I was happy at my good fortune, but what I didn't know was that it set into motion a streak lasting nearly two years of luck on my side.

This deus ex machina within my life came to mind as I returned to that very spot of land. It was a decade later. Now, I could look back at that turning point with perspective. At the time, there was much unsettled about my life. I knew that I'd be in LA soon, hustling. Now, of course, I'm...ugh. Not exactly the same but...yeah. Well, look at the peaks and valleys of things. Perhaps as beautiful as this area is, I need to further break away. Find me somewhere off the path...hell, can we find somewhere that has no path?

Yes, you can, if you're willing to look. The Everglades, and the few routes that travel these parts, are a unique mass. At first sight, it appears to be a boring horizon. Perhaps more pleasing than the patterned cornfields of the midwest, but similar all the same. Unlike that area, however, if you look closer there is movement. Animals moving and changing at their own pace, likely having been there their whole lives. Same, I found out, as the people.

For many years, you couldn't make it to Chokoloskee by car. Either you had a boat, or you knew someone who did. There were gators abound, of course. This likely kept away the riff-raff, even if they really wanted to get down there. Even today, which is relatively fluid with transportation, it's a small town barely touched by the outsider. And, oh sweet Moses, we thank the heavens for that.

Please allow me to be selfish for a second to say that this area was exactly what my psyche needed. Put me in the middle of nowhere in warm breezes with people who wouldn't dare judge you because no one wants to hear the results. We needed a clubhouse; a headquarters. Somewhere that isn't as touched by the tourists...if at all possible. Immediately I was reminded that it was hard NOT being a tourist here. And they want you, because it's tough making a go of it here. But shit, I figured, dive in: Pass the alligator. People try to soften the blow by comparing this (and other) sea delicacies as tasting like chicken. But to me, in this moment, it tasted like moonshine, boat chases, and beer. Waiter! More!

Others were ready to keep the day moving, but I was more than glad to find some of the local color. Since the road arrived decades ago, there are hucksters to your right and left. Pose for photos with odd animals! Buy a baby alligator head: suitable for framing! Contact the Everglades busiest taxidermist!

Once sufficient photos were taken, I was driven to an airboat tour trailer. My guide would be Darryl. Unknowingly, I was about to have my world altered.

Darryl's shades likely never leave his face. His voice, thankfully, has been crafted by a lifetime more interesting than I can ever dream. He eases back, handing us fish as pelicans arrive. I am not holding bait, but it doesn't stop a pelican using its wooden chops arcoss my palm. "Yeah." says Darryl. He may or may not have been referring to me.

At the every turn, he is frightening the women of the boat to everyone's comedic delight. He guns it in-between narrow trees. He picks up a gator by the mouth with his hands. I want this guy to share more of his tales, but I'm nervous to prompt such a tide. I sense he's still sizing us up...as if we're worth it. Thankfully, we are. He tells of how, after many beers, he took his airboat to top speed, jumped the beach, and slid right into a gas station on the road. Immediately, this man has reached legend status with me. Then he tells of how he's a licensed pilot as well...and he knew he had to quit drinking when, in his prop plane, he buzzed one too many rooftops. His wife (do we even dare ask?) said he was going to get that stunt wrong one time. That was the mid-80s. Whatever I might have been doing at the time, it certainly wasn't that.

Then, maybe to show us he still has it (unlikely he has to prove it to himself) he speeds to the shore, only to pull a Rockford-style J turn at the last moment. Most clutch in fear. I turned around and clapped, which he smartly took as "Encore, Encore." It was done again, just as impressive.

I wouldn't have said, or even thought about it at the time. (Or, moreover, in that moment) But I knew my return to Dealville would come in time. Though, what I didn't know then I wonder if I would be happy if I didn't have to know now. That is, there's a lot of ways to make it happen. Sometimes you have to overturn a lot of rocks to find gold. Ay yingo, could I use some. Greedy? Simply realistic. Pass the rum. I have seen a glimpse, and I need all the strength I can get.

Sun and Sand and All That Gleams

(ed. note: Dee Louis has recently relocated to the Northernmost Shore of Oahu. The day he arrived in this Pacific Isle, it was 3 below zero in his homeland, causing a massive split in his psyche. These images and messages are arriving at what could be called a "trickle")

We face north here, looking on a straight line to Mother Russia, away from the rest of this time zone, and into Oblivion. The darkness comes on like a firecracker in the night, the rise is a flame from the mainland. Everything is saturated, the world can hold no more color, it gives it off in fits. The eyes open wider, the taste of things changes, and our Inner Selves are less and less responsible for our environments.

The cable has been cut. Away we drift.

We landed here a week ago and received a text message from the city of Minneapolis. "SNOW EMERGENCY DECLARED". Well, that's perfect. The sun was blazing right from the get, and now it's a companion. We have yet to eat a meal inside, and sweet god, is that even an option? The constant bake slows everything down and we have to get acclimated to it... else we are likely to end up sucking wind and keeled over like Ma and Pa Horsenhiemer. So we play by the South Island rules: move slower, walk with purpose, don't look up. After a few days, we're in. Skin has been ionized, tires have been summarized. Now, about those sunglasses...

You can look at the Infinite Blue for only so long before her call becomes too strong. It's time to charge in. Hearty waves and things that sting only heighten the excitement, focus the laser. It's not a battle for your life, but in many ways, all problems find a resting place here, 30 feet out. Look back at that land and you are liable to consider the pointlessness of all conflict. Look the other way, and, well, Melville called it "Terra Incognita", saying that Columbus sailed over 500 "new worlds" before arriving at his artificial one. Deep and vast beyond calculation by the human eye, we can only measure by tools, and that removes us from it.

It rings true here, as nowhere else, that life waits for everyone, and that wavelengths of personality all answer to the one True Hymn. Maybe that's the rhythm we are all missing. That drum line sinking and diving underneath all else, emerging only to give depth to the message. If we all hear it, then it's made for us.

Sun and sand, earth and fire, water and sky. Here we are, on the precipice. A blank mind is our reward.

Keep An Eye Out For The Border Patrol, Checkin For Drugs And The So-Called Aliens

Water, they say, washes away your sins. Well, a special kind of water anyway. This is easy in the Land of the North, where lakes and streams flow easy and free (at least in the special "summer" months). And you Baptists? If you can find a creek or gully or gulch or whatever in backwater GA, then you've got yourself a holy land. And really, that's the human way. We're all wired into that, it's our makeup. The world, our bodies, hell our symbols and empires, born of the great agua.

So tell me somethin, son - when the only water you get is from the sky, and the Rio Grande ain't so damn grand in December, what then? Who is saved?

It's desert here, but it's desert everywhere, so the only difference is elevation. And what a difference it makes. From this height you'd think you'd be able to see something different, but it all just goes up or down, and never the same. See, that's where we came from, and soon will return. The flatness. The vision of a thousand miles. Not in New Mexico. Not on these peaks.

People live here, it's true, but the land swallows all. Great swaths of sand and scrub brush eat up the great majority, leaving one to wonder things about desert oceans and sand rivers. We pass over innumerable "dry washes". They're probably wet for 2 days of the year. This country's hard on people. And it shows.

When you get here, you can drive up and keep going, or you can, as they say, head down to the crevasse. Huge canyons hold as much spectacle as towering peaks, you just have to work harder on the backend. The sun is closer up top, but burns hotter on the floor of the gulch. Ebb and flow, back and forth, and all you can do is go forward.

That's why we're here. Why we strike out on another gallop, why we put the flame to the killer and see how hot it gets. Life is sustainable at sea level, sure. But it moves quicker on the slope. We've been there, and now we're here. And soon, we'll be there again. The birds sing songs of laughter, truly. Our earth-bound gravity can only yield so much.

It's not a renewal. It's not a rebirth. I'm not born in an image, and I have no one to find. But still, if you could excuse me, I'd like to take a bath in that salty mirth, and let it cleanse what it can.