Weather Diary - Day 11 (Thursday March 30 2006 Sunny 65F)

'On Art'

"Which would you rather be if you had a choice - divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever or angelically good?"
L.M. Montgomery,'Anne of Green Gables'

I have, inside of me somewhere, a little bit of L.M. Montgomery's 'Anne'. As a small child, my mother, (an avid 'Anne' fan from very early on), reads virtually everything 'Anne' to my sister and me. (I have a sneaking suspicion that I am that Anne's namesake.)
But here in my workspace, in the little cottage, in the village of Ocracoke, in the midst of my art pilgrimage, it is this question that I pose to the (inanimate) drawing I'm working on.

'Would you rather be beautiful or clever or good?'

I actually have several artworks on the go. Each time I reach a tricky bit, I move to a different piece, and round and round she goes. (She being me.)
If things are going well, I may suddenly look up, realizing that Chester hasn't been out for hours and hours.
If things are not going well, I sit at my table and stare, glancing at the clock every 30 seconds or so.
But today, things are going well.
Sunny, warm, with a spring air full of sweet scents, I fling open all windows and doors. I spend the first hour priming 24" x 36" masonite boards, boards which are now lying outside on the deck, drying in the sun, Chester sprawled out amongst them.  Inside, I set up three of my art projects.
One, a half-done watercolour of our friends' hotel, (or more accurately, one of the charming vintage buildings on their property).
Two, the work entitled 'Pilgrimage', with drawn figures walking across (what I refer to as) a moonscape.
And three, a long thin strip of canvas tacked to the top of a door and hanging down its full length, with the barest of beginnings of a figure work, a self-portrait at age twelve.

I ponder the 'beautiful or clever or good' question while regarding my 12-year-old self. Or at least, the slowly emerging figure work which I call my 12-year-old self. It is (virtually) life-size, and so far, is a mixture of delicate graphite and soft colour, the colour made with watercolour pencils, thinned out with a wet brush. These wet colour areas, (due to gravity), create long watery trails, giving the figure a sense of earthly attachment.
Beautiful?
I think of my old Scottish art prof, saying "We're not here to paint pretty pictures!"
Or clever?
Perhaps, (in some aspect of this work), I would hope to reflect some cleverness, or the odd moment of brilliance. But, try to get this across, and it shows.
Good then?
What makes art 'good'?

I work on the emerging figure work which I call my 12-year-old self. I find the place deep within, and close everything else out. I work on this piece with intuition, devotion, something akin to love. I don't worry about results. I immerse myself in each step of bringing out the figure. I immerse myself in the process.

I have everything I need today to keep me fully occupied. Not beautiful, not clever, not good. Just
enough, for now, to be in the midst of the process of creating.
The rest will take care of itself.

Weather Diary - Day 10 (Wednesday March 29 2006 Sunny 64F)

On Food

The vegetable man cometh.

I hear that on Wednesdays, a small vegetable market is set up on the lawn in front of the (one and only) bank on the main road of the village of Ocracoke. There are, in fact, two places in the village to buy veggies, but the selection is somewhat limited. I am eager to see what is available from the vegetable man.
And it is one man. He is quite elderly, quite elderly, (a bit of a surprise, considering all of the hefting and toting involved), and has an absolutely genuine coastal North Carolina accent, the kind of accent which is rapidly dying. As each day passes.
He has quite a variety of veggies and fruit. And with a number of eager customers ahead of me, for a good ten minutes I get to ponder my selections, and hear his accent in action.  When it is my turn, I pick out some lovely fresh lettuce, carrots, peppers and peas. Slimmer pickings as far as fruit, but I take a few apples and a bunch of grapes. All packed into a brown paper bag, Chester and I hike back to the cottage, (Chester to curl up on the sofa, and me back to work.)

I eat most of the grapes as I am working. (What is going on with my appetite?)  I am craving the fresh peas in their sweet little pods, and convince myself that the longer I wait, the less flavourful they'll be.

I consume them.  All.   It is 11 a.m.

I am in the midst of the 'Three Hours of Art' part of the day, and am working on a series of mixed media figure works, works on panels intended to become part of one larger work, and which for the time-being, I call 'Pilgrimage', (for obvious reasons).
I am so distracted from my work, (by the contents of the kitchen), that I take a break to flip through the 'Virginian-Pilot'.
Staring at me from the front page of the life section, the word FOOD. Included in the many delights here, a wonderful recipe for 'Black bean, tomato and rice tortillas'. But here's the thing. The great thing. The directions are for microwave preparation.
The cottage does have (what I assume is) a perfectly good gas stove, but due to emotional circumstances beyond my control, I avoid it. I have been here, on this island, in this cottage, for ten days, and have done all of the cooking, ALL of the cooking, (including dozens of cups of tea), in the microwave.

I cut out the recipe and head for the grocery store, the bigger one, I decide, as I am unclear about the likelihood of finding several of the ingredients. But I am impressed by the extent of Mexican foods. There is a whole section of really interesting canned goods, some of which I have no idea, (after turning and turning the can in my hand), what the contents actually are. But I do find what I need, and some. Tortillas, green chiles, diced tomatoes, enchilada sauce, jalapenos, black beans, refried beans, rice, and monterey jack cheese. (The cheese is astonishingly cheap, compared to home.)

I manage, (with some difficulty), to put my new finds away until supper time, and to stick to my regime of art making, long walk and sea study. It is another sun-filled afternoon, the sea a pale blue/grey with yellow sparkling light. But like a small child anticipating Christmas, I can't WAIT for supper prep, and walk quickly.
We are home, and I put on some music - Jerry Jeff Walker, ('Takin' it as it comes'), cranked up. I pour my beer into a bulbous wine glass, lay out my materials and go at them.
I create a little salad as a salute to the vegetable man, cook rice, grate cheese. I put my ingredients in small colourful bowls and lay them out in order (a la Julia Child). I assemble and cook.
The results are spectacular. The tortillas (I have several) are heavenly, the combination of flavours and textures, the oozy cheese, the picante jalapenos - I have hit on the perfect combo, the perfect meal, a signature meal in fact, the 'theme food' for my time on this island.
I am...full.

Weather Diary - Day 9 (Tuesday March 28 2006 Sunny 68F)

'On Pilgrimage'

Buoyed up by yesterday's hugely successful art workday, I do what any self-respecting artist would do.     I take the day off.
Well, not totally true. It's not the whole day, and I do still follow my daily routine. I just replace the 'three hours of art' part of the day with a hike in Hammock Hills.
It is another gorgeous day, (promised by the red sky sunset of last night), and I am eager to go farther afield. Farther than the coffee shop, farther than Red's hardware, the grocery store, the harbour. Farther, but not off the island. That would be a day trip, and I think three hours will do.
I feel the need to walk amongst the trees. The village roads are tree-lined, but Chester and I are confined to road's edge. I know there are taller pines farther north (three miles or so) and this maritime forest, on the Pamlico Sound side of the island, is calling me.
To justify this, I call it a Pilgrimage. Which it really is, as walking on unexplored (by me) ground, I will free my mind and heart and be renewed with freshness and vigour. Or at least, work up and appetite.

Hammock Hills Nature Trail, part of the Cape Hatteras National Seashore, is a well marked trail with boardwalk, signposts and information on flora and fauna. But being March, it is not terribly busy. In fact, there is no one. I hesitate at the start of the trail, but Chester is off and away, and I am comforted by three facts.
He is a hundred pound (protective) black lab.
We are unlikely to run into anyone.
There are no bears in Hammock Hills. (Or any large animals, for that matter.)

And that is how it goes. We follow the boardwalk, Chester with his nose to the boards, me stopping to identify trees and shrubs. We turn into the woods when the boardwalk ends, becoming a sandy trail well marked and easily followed. The atmosphere changes, becoming still and enclosed, darker with tall straight pines towering above. It is like entering a cathedral, the music is bird song, the hushed movements that of small creatures. Out again, on the sound side, to a platform overlooking the marshy edges of the western shore of Ocracoke Island, and the bird activity is captivating. I could sit here all day, my legs dangling over the edge, gazing through the grasses and buzzing insects, over the flat still pale grey water.
The trail circles back through the maritime forest, the ground dune-like but sheltered and nurturing. We see a tiny bright green lizard-like creature, a Carolina Anole, basking in the warmth of a dappled sunny spot on the boardwalk.

It's taken less than an hour, but I feel a huge sense of accomplishment, refreshed and hopeful. Hardly Santiago de Compostela, but this camino has led me somewhere too. We have circled back to the beginning, but as with any journey, we are changed by it.
We head back to the village, but as an afterthought, stop on the east side to catch a glimpse of the open sea. Calm, glittering, orderly waves, sun high above. We slip down to water's edge where I wade to knee depth, Chester eying me carefully. I reach into the churned up water, seeing something rolling about with the waves. I pull out a scallop shell, nearly flawless, about four inches across.
Well, that's appropriate. The scallop shell, symbol of pilgrimage.

'Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory (hopes true gage)
And then I'll take my pilgrimage.'
                           -Sir Walter Raleigh

Weather Diary - Day 8 (Monday March 27 2006 Sun 59F)

'On Simplicity'

It is a glorious Monday morning, and I am pumped. It is as if I am enrolled in a course of study, a course of study of all the things I love.
Art-wise that is.

Yes, here I am in this day, on Ocracoke Island, in the midst of my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage, ready to begin the day. A day which follows a routine, a rhythm spurred by my proximity to the sea, influenced by the ebb and flow of the tides.

Tea. Spiritual Reading. Walk. Coffee Shop. Three Hours of Art.  Lunch. Short Walk. Read. Nap. Two Hours of Art. Evening Art Prep. Long Long Walk and Sea Study.  Supper Prep. Beer.   Supper.  Evening Art.  Kick Back.  Bed.

Perhaps it is the fact that I am away from life's usual distractions, but it actually seems manageable to be able to immerse myself in my work. All of the wheels are turning in order to give me the space and time to do this.
In a moment of anxiety, of feeling the pressure to produce some decent work, (in the days before I arrive here), I spend time accumulating and listing all of my art ideas, starting points, exercises, visual material, to ensure that I don't find myself with nothing to do.  But those fears are unfounded. I have so much to work from in this place, that I will draw from it for years.
I am (finally) in the midst of practising my art.

And all wrapped up in the idea of practise, is the concept of order. Not being the most organized person, order at least gives a wayward daydreamer a pattern to follow. And the notion of order reminds me of the monastic life of which I have a deep interest, a life of routine and spiritual study and simplicity.

I read an article on abstract expressionist Agnes Martin. I can't get enough of her work, her life, her imagery. Imagery which is simplicity writ large, (if that's not a contradiction in terms), composed of soft graphite lines, grids, and subtle colour fields. Simplicity, order, pattern, organization of space. Minimalism.
I am drinking in the systematic patterns of Agnes Martin. I see washes and delicate lines which come from within her, from a place not of intellectual analysis or study, but from deep within. These works are personal, spiritual, simple and spare. They are intuitive. Peace and joy.

I  am seeking this simplicity.

Regular daily life - so often fraught with complication, desire, abundance, selfishness. While I'm here in this place, I vow to follow a simpler way, perhaps easier here as I am on my own and immersed in my work. But I want to carry it home with me, for the simplicity to stay in me, and for the work I do to come from this place deep within.

Chester and I head for the sea after a day filled (for once) with satisfying work and few breaks. He is bounding ahead, up and away along the boardwalk toward our first glimpse this day of the sea. We are rewarded by  jewel-toned blues and turquoises glinting with golden end-of-day light. Regular gentle waves, a reminder of rhythm and simplicity.
As I take in the whole wide-open scene, I see the sea, both delicate and vigorous, and  think of Agnes Martin, her work, my own work, and the place deep within.

Weather Diary - Day 7 (Sunday March 26 2006 Sunny 56F)

'On Childhood'

Sunday Service - 11 A.M.

So reads the sign in front of the
Ocracoke United Methodist Church.
As I am on a spiritual journey as well as an art pilgrimage, and as I need all of the influences I can get on the subject of spirituality, and as I am eager for social contact as well as inspiration, I go.
I am slightly apprehensive, knowing very little about the NC church-going experience. I wonder if my assumption that it is similar to ours is merely wishful thinking.
But it is lovely. Quite a large congregation (comparatively speaking), lady minister, (good speaker), lots of singing, (slightly different slant on the hymns, some of which I know), a few smiles and welcomes directed at me.
And children. It is almost always more interesting for me when there are children present. Some are sitting very quietly between parents. Some participate in the music. Others are running around outside.
I spend a fair bit of the service just taking it all in, especially the southern-style wooden church itself, which puts me in mind of another church on the other side of the world, and as this completely occupies my thoughts, I daydream.

I am four, and the youngest of four siblings. My ambitious parents take us from Toronto, Ontario to Auckland, New Zealand, where we live for sixteen months. We travel by ship - I am impressed enough by these events to carry them with me through life. But it is the sense of smell which is strongest, and this I can conjure up at any time. The ropey tar-like salty smell on deck, the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked dinner rolls in the dining room, the wafts of tropical flowers, frangipani, as we watch little islands pass in the south Pacific, the smell of paper and rubber and children in the playroom, the wood and linen and soap smell in the dim light of a sleepy cabin.
We arrive.
I begin school in Auckland, on my fifth birthday, cementing the place in my memory forever.  I tie my own tie (school uniform), begin to read, learn to play 'knucklebones', and foster a lifelong love of hot-meat-pies. (Oh, and of course, lamb.)
As a family, we sail our little boat in the bay, swim, picnic, hike. We attend church in a small plain wooden building, where I gaze longingly at the bare feet of local children, (as we are forced into proper shoes). Our home has no phone or television, but with an enormous garden, quiet street and lots of children to play with, here we run barefoot. When I am told that we are moving back to Canada, I cry.
I am heartbroken. After all, sixteen months is a big chunk of life when you are five. (And no one gives me a straight answer about the likelihood of finding a hot-meat-pie stand in Canada).
My parents, for the rest of their lives, remember it as an amazing adventure, but I think of their hopes for a less materialistic life and equal society, and wonder if disappointment has a role. We settle easily back into Canadian life,  and within a couple of years, our much loved baby brother is born.
What remains of that sixteen months?  A tiny bright flicker within me.

I am back in the little wooden Ocracoke church.
'Shall We Gather at the River?' and it is over. I make my way home to Chester, past the reds and pinks of the azaleas, past the one and only Ocracoke School, ('Home of the Dolphins'), the playground, the outdoor basketball court, the coffee shop, all singing and ringing with the high birdlike chirp of children. I am welcomed by Chester, (as if I'd left him for a month), and we head for the sea, the beach, and more of childhood, on this soft and sunny and memory-laden day.

Weather Diary - Day 6 (Saturday March 25 2006 Partly cloudy 54F)

On Colour

Vermilion. NaplesYellow. Pale Turquoise.WarmWhite. Olive Brown.
Five of the oil pastels nestled in my toolbox, just for days like this. When the light is so sensuous, so tangible, that getting it all down is my only consideration.
I remove just these colours - Olive Brown (earthy, elemental), Warm White (soft, clean), Pale Turquoise (bright, fresh), Naples Yellow (sunny, creamy), and my fire, my soul, Vermilion (so rich, red, blood-like, that it is practically a living thing) - and spend the day with them, and a 14" x 17" pad of 110 lb. acid free white paper, 100% recycled.

Some hours later, on a dog-walk around and about the village, (a dog- walk strictly due to necessity), I manage to reconnect with old friends. They are the owners of the hotel where we have stayed at times in years past. ( Doug and I, that is, not Chester, it being a 'no pets' establishment.) They are a lovely couple, originally from inland NC, and now on this island and in the business of running a hotel with their son and daughter-in-law. We exchange phone numbers, and they tell me not to hesitate to call on them in an emergency, or if I get myself in a 'tight'. She and I chat for some time. She's interested in the art I'm working on, and mentions that, sometime, she would love to have some watercolour paintings done of their place. The hotel accommodation is made up of several charming older buildings. I am both keen and willing to give it a shot.
 I have (luckily) brought with me a beautiful little travel box of watercolour paints, (as I felt they may come in handy at some point), and an 8" x 10" block with 15 sheets of good quality hot press watercolour paper. She tells me that she will find  some photos for me to work from, and we make a plan to have tea at my place.

Well.  I have arrived.  Now, I'm (almost) a 'local'.
I have friends (plural).  I have a project.  I have social plans.  I am ecstatic.  I'm not sure I qualify as a hermit anymore.

It is this course of events which leads to the opening of the little travel box of watercolour paints.

And, oh, the colours.

I realize that, with a range of (some 50) colours, I can capture every subtle shade and nuance of this glittering light-filled place. It is like opening a box of chocolates.
I pore over the wooden box with its slatted dividers, each tiny compartment holding a half-pan, a little square of paint. But, the names intrigue me as much as the colours themselves. The colour names are a whole different language, a painter's language, a language with a deep, long history:

bismuth, gamboge, cobalt,
antwerp blue, potter's pink, alizarin crimson,
indigo, sepia, ochre,
burnt sienna, terre verte, caput mortuum

And so begins my love affair with watercolour - incorporated into the mix, into my daily rhythm.

Weather Diary - Day 5 (Friday March 24 2006 Light Rain 50F)

On Process

Happily, five days into my pilgrimage, I fall into something of a routine, (a routine I imagine to be the influence of the tides), and with that, a satisfying rhythm. It is a routine that goes beyond the early morning spiritual reading, beyond the daily beach walk, beyond the actual art making, although these elements are part of the process in a space and time of virtual solitude.
I, in need of some regular social interaction, incorporate into the ebb and flow a daily visit to the local coffee shop. Here before 8 a.m., I pick up the day's 'Virginian-Pilot', an excellent cup of coffee, and boundless attention for the dog.
On this day of typical coastal North Carolina weather, of a rain so gentle it is almost mist-like, several men are gathered at the entrance, deep in conversation, and I hesitate, negotiating the least disruptive path around them. But Chester (as always) becomes the centre of things, and is petted and fed morsels of muffin and bagel, much to his joy. (This is instantly imprinted on his memory.) He gazes up into one friendly pair of eyes, tongue lolling and saying, 'I will never forget you!' And he means it.
They are teachers, construction workers, plumbers and wait-staff, I gather from the conversation. We sit in the shelter of the porch, me with the crossword puzzle, Chester at my feet, and animated conversation all around.
This will do.
As I listen, drinking it all in (along with the coffee), I see my time on this beautiful little island being buffed like beach glass, into a smooth, rounded, satisfying shape. I am nudged softly into remembering my devotion to the concept of 'process', a concept long thought about in relation to art making.

Process. A series of stages. The course of becoming.

Because it's not really all about the 'Finished Product'. It's about becoming something, about the journey, all of the small steps as well as the grand events, all of the learning, the trials, the practise, the imperfection - all that leads up to the finished product - the successes, the happy accidents, and the hurdles.
Oh yes, the hurdles.
All part of the process too.
The struggles and missteps, the blots, scribbles, awkward areas and bad colour choices, the messes made, the impetuous decisions, the paper crumpled and thrown across the room, the canvases left to mould and rot, heaved onto a funeral pyre, the tears and frustrations. All of that too, all of the mistakes, heartache and disappointment, all of that, all of that EFFORT, somehow becomes the very fibre of the fresh clean presentable finished product, whether the finished product is an artwork, a novel, a life, or a self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage.

Heavy thinking for 8 a.m.

Chester and I amble back to our little cottage in the mist-like rain, a rain that doesn't make the world grey somehow, but soft and gentle and pastel.
This is the day I really begin to work.
Now I am ready.

Weather Diary - Day 4 (Thursday March 23 2006 Sunny and Cool 54F)

On the Wind

I am up at 5, awake due to the departing (invisible) diesel truck. It will be another two hours before Chester rouses himself, so I, instead of going back to sleep, embark on my early morning routine:

• Make cup of tea. (In the microwave. The gas stove scares me, so I ignore it, not wanting to burn down the cottage.)
• Gaze out onto the dark empty road. (No lights, no one.)
• Take cup of tea back to bed.
• Read.

I decide to use this time in a monastic way, (as in  monk-like study), and so begins my regime of spiritual reading.
It is a comfort, this routine - book, bedside lamp, steaming cup of tea, snoring dog. And a challenge, as I hear a series of unsettling gusts of wind in the slowly lightening wide world.
The wind.
In Ocracoke, trees don't grow to a great height, being buffeted around by whatever blows in off the Atlantic. This a.m., these stunted trees sound as if they are being bent double.

Spiritual reading is one step in the process for me, the process of art-making. I am hoping that some morsel of this reading will stick in me, and so influence my drawings. A tall order perhaps, but everything here seems to have an effect. Ideas seem to flow out of me in a natural and organic way, and everything that I feel seems as crystal, sharply defined. After a couple of hours, I climb out of my book. It is a day for a long leg-stretch - fresh, windy. The wide open Atlantic is beckoning to Chester (now stirring) and me. The art will wait. I am in need of colour.
It is a less than ten minute drive to the stretch of beach which calls us. Having parked, we walk along the sandy boardwalk, climbing up and away toward the shore, a definite chill in the air, but a manageable wind. It is only when we are over the dunes, the second after the sea comes into view, that it hits us. Like a slap, the wind pushes us back. I gather myself and try again, finding that by walking south, we are at least partly sheltered. (Chester, surprisingly, seems unbothered by the wind.)
The sand, normally a smooth and undulating blanket, is now pock-marked with a hard shell-like crust, and stings my bare legs as tiny pellets travel at breakneck speed across the expanse of beach.
But, the sea - I can't drag my eyes from it. A chaotic churning caldron, it has nothing in common with the rhythmic order of yesterday. I have no desire to be within twenty yards of it for fear of being grabbed and hauled into its depths.

This is a short walk.

But, mission accomplished. I do my best to etch the (ever-changing) hues in my mind, and although they are interpreted, muted, softened, in the hour before I actually begin my drawing and get them down, the flitting colours, the feel of the wind, the spirit of it all, is there.

Weather Diary - Day 3 (Wednesday March 22 2006 Sunny and Cool 46F)

On Ocracoke

I am a sucker for redheads.
The young man behind the counter of Ocracoke's hardware store is pointing out the different sizes of tiny brass nails available in 1.5 ounce boxes. He speaks in a long slow North Carolina style, but ends each sentence with an uplift, and a little grin. He asks me if I am planning on doing some repairs (grin), and I say ha-ha but no, the brass nails are for my mixed media art.
I take an instant liking to him.
This is like no other conversation (limited) I've had so far on the island. 'Red' is apparently related to the silent woman who rings in the sales in the grocery store, (the other half of this retail establishment), but she is as non-communicative as he is effusive. He clearly has an interest in people, (right now me), where I am from, why I am here, and how I am liking it. We talk about other hardware specials, ( I know where to come if I need plumbing supplies), and about the island in general, the construction going on at the harbour, the post office, and the ferry service.
He is the 'go to' guy for all things Ocracoke.
This conversation spurs me to head for the harbour, and have a look through fresh eyes, on this cool but beautiful morning.
The village of Ocracoke, (off-season population, about 900), is made up of houses, cottages, hotels, shops, restaurants, pubs, churches, museums, community centre, ferry terminal, lighthouse and boats, boats, boats. A series of narrow roads built up around a harbour, the village lies right at the south end of the island. This leaves the long narrow northern reaches of Ocracoke Island with only a two-lane highway running up it like a spine, (the highway leading to the northern ferry connection), and the wind-blown dunes and vast stretch of Atlantic-facing beach virtually free of development.
In the village, the harbour, with the routine southern ferry activity, green spaces and views onto Pamlico Sound, is a draw for Chester and me, each for our own reasons. It is a bustle of activity, (Ocracoke style), and in March, mainly of the pelican, duck, goose and gull variety.
We are at Howard Street. Off and away from the harbour in the oldest part of the village, Howard Street is paved in oyster shells and dotted with old family burial plots, and a mixture of Ocracoke homes and cottages. Shaded by ancient live oak trees, Howard Street has, even in the middle of this glorious blue and yellow day, a bit of a spooky feel.
It has a ghost story to tell.
All is sand underfoot. You may have to scrape down an inch or two with an oyster shell, but all is sand.
Ocracoke Island is essentially a sand bar. At sea level, it feels every gust of wind, every nuance in the changing weather.

Being an island, it is alone when facing a storm.

Chester and I head back to the hardware, as I remember I need a 2" paintbrush. Before I enter, I see Red grinning at me through the screened window, and feel a sense of euphoria that someone so friendly, so completely uplifting, is on this island, in this place, right now.
"Here comes trouble!", he announces to all within earshot.

Weather Diary - Day 2 (Tuesday March 21 2006 Rain and More Rain 48F)

On Loneliness

I have rented a little cottage in Ocracoke village for the duration of my stay. It has a homey (if somewhat cluttered) feel about it. The cottage sits high off the ground, up on stilts. It is as if I were living in a tree. I look out across the quiet road to an empty overgrown lot. There is one beautiful old live oak tree on this lot, which fascinates me. I'm not sure why.
No one has been seen (by  me) on this road. Chester and I have set off on several walks in both directions, but there isn't a soul about, in spite of the fact that houses are dotted all along both sides.
It is, being March, before the lively season begins. But I know people live here. I hear a diesel truck start up every morning at 5 a.m., which sounds like it's in the next room. I have walked slowly up and down this road as dusk is falling to see if I can spot a returned diesel truck anywhere, but no.
Chester and I trek through the greyness and rain to the coffee shop to make sure there hasn't been an evacuation of which we weren't informed. (There are three people there, and no urgency.)
It is my first week here, and the upcoming days of my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage stretch out like the row of pelicans perched on the pilings in the harbour.
And not in a good way.

What do I think I can do differently here?
Why do I have to be alone to work?
Why am I here at all?

I wrap myself in my misery, but mercifully it is short-lived.
Yes, I am lonely, but so is the majestic live oak tree across the road.
I will use this loneliness to my advantage. I will put it into my work. It will be an ingredient injected into my drawings which could not materialize anywhere else but here, on this island, at this time.

Loneliness as a drawing material - a red oil pastel. Blood red, I think.

I rearrange the clutter of furniture in the cottage. I lay out the tools of my trade; graphite pencils, coloured chalks, oil pastels, rulers, erasers, sharpeners, sticks, brushes, pads of paper, masking tape, paints. I seek out a little shop which sells fishing net, and hang a stretch of this over a window. I fasten all of my clippings, words, scraps of fabric and coloured paper - my inspiration - to this fishing net. My scraps are caught in the net, fluttering in the breeze, unable to get away, caught, sacrificed, but committed to a life (or death) of being the inspiration for the work done here in the next few weeks.
They flutter.
The sight of my inspiration fluttering in concert gives me great strength.
The sight of this has consumed my loneliness. And all are fluttering. All fluttering and waiting to be cleaned, gutted and filleted.

Then cooked and eaten.