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.
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