Watermelon, papaya, pineapple and lime. There is no variety on my complimentary fruit plate. It’s the same every morning for my breakfast. I squeeze the lime over the juicy sweet slices of tropical color. I stab those bites of moist flavor with a small silver fork and witness how they crunch, squish, dissolved and splash inside my mouth. Same almost every morning and I’m starting to love it. At first I wondered why the kitchen staff didn’t bring in the occasional dragonfruit or mango. Why not peel an orange or plop down some red grapes. Routine is everything at this resort for one. I’m the only guest here most of the time. I’m having fun pretending this is my very own private Hollywood mansion with a groundskeeper and full cleaning and cooking staff. I wake up in my big white bed to admire the fire orange sun rising behind the black palm tree silhouettes. By the pool I inhale the plumerias and indulge my sense of touch in the cool water. Same every luxurious day. I am creating a strong comfortable bubble, a routine that I glide through effortlessly. I’m carving a groove, an energetic riverbed in my existence, through which inspired words can flow and rush with enthusiasm. My sleep is deep and dreamy again, never without vivid fantasy and adventure, romance and tension. I wake up each morning from a wild imagination and continue on.
I’ve made friends with a dog named Pheobe who walks with me through the rice paddies at sunrise. She’s happy to see me. I’m happy to see her. The rest of the dogs can fuck off. They annoy the hell out of me with their sharp barking and I feel only the tiniest sliver of compassion for their furry souls. I wish they would be quiet. I’m sure they have similar feelings towards me. They wish I wouldn’t trod across their land each morning, an American rainbow in offensively bright orange shoes, invading their quiet farmer’s field. I usually walk in silence but sometimes I jabber away on my phone sending voice messages to Rae who is listening as she walks her dog through the much more expensive streets of Barcelona.
Hours in the cafe, feet curled beneath me, a homemade coconut chocolate “Bounty Ball” melting on my tongue, and now 115,000 words written in my book. The story is evolving and it’s a messy. If it were written on paper, the the white scribbled sheets would be all over the floor in random stacks, pinned to the wall, crumbled in the bin, and shoved under books. The worst pages would be paper spit ball globs drying on the ceiling, long ago destroyed in my frustrated fingers and thrown back to the gods! Thankfully, I get to take advantage of modern technology. I’m organizing my book on my laptop in a program called “Scrivener”. I can easily slide documents around each other until they’re in linear order. The trash bin doesn’t have to be carried outside. I just click it and voila! Empty! Always a nervous moment though. No take-backsies.
I haven’t drunk coffee in over forty days now. I feel like I’m in Alcoholics Anonymous. Day by day I keep choosing green tea and when I smile in the mirror my teeth are sparkling white again. Above all, it’s my vanity that motivates me. I love looking pretty, sparkling with health. Guilty and glowing again! I notice how much more energy I have in the day without drinking coffee. That’s another bonus. I count the days because it’s far too easy to find an excuse to just have a sip of that comforting beverage and everyone is an enabler. I fantasize about writing songs, writing this novel, with a coffee by my side. It’s such a romantic way of life…the writer with her coffee. I grieve a little and sip the green tea which has a charm of its own; less cozy, more refined. I call in some geisha spirits to help me sit up straighter and enjoy the green tea with Japanese elegance.
The rice paddies are disappearing. One by one the farmers move on to the next patch, leaving behind them a yellow, cut down, square. Harvesting season is well on the way now. I’m curious to see what the next phase looks like, to see the next batch of life spring up. The rice farmers remind me of what hard work really looks like. Most of them don’t look up as I walk by. I try not to stare too intensely at them, respectfully observing. I can’t help my fascination though. They’re showing me through the work of their hands what it looks like to get up with the sun and get to it. I walk, stretch, squat, squish fruit in my mouth, sip green tea, pick up my black inky pen and get to it.
Love & Rainbows, Cha🍍Wilde
