What A Gas: Days 6 and 7

"Just You and I"

Saturday (5/21)

Let’s rewind to the night before and the strange smell of cooked broccoli.

After realizing that it couldn’t possibly be the smell of broccoli- because I didn’t bring any with me- I got up from my relaxed seated position in bed, set down my glass of wine and walked over to the bathroom door and pushed it open, “Whoa!”  There was no question now about what kind of stench was engulfing the shack and if I initially had trouble with the mechanics of the pot belly stove, how the hell was I going to address the non-plumbing, plumbing problem of this compost toilet…in the dark?  I had followed the instructions perfectly.  I was pissing outside, not throwing any paper down the hole- okay, maybe once or twice I forgot- and pulling the raking bar back and forth on the box outside after each use.  I checked the cleanliness of the bowl, the connections of the ducting below and raked the hell out of the box but the smell persisted*.  It wasn’t terrible but definitely noticeable.  Having exhausted everything that I could think of I finally came up with a workable solution for the night and moved my sleeping bag out to the couch, closing both the bathroom and bedroom door and thought, “I hope you can’t die from breathing in this gas all night like let’s say, carbon monoxide.”  When morning finally came around,  things were miraculously back to normal and I was still alive.

This would be my last full day at Fowler and I have mixed emotions about it- as I do when anything changes or something comes to an end.  After breakfast, I decide to walk into the interior of the dunes.  I am in awe as I explore this part of the Cape.  Growing up in southern California, the beach just becomes a part of your life and after a while, it is easy to take it all for granted.  Here, I am rediscovering a new appreciation for the sea, the sand and the sun.  There is a beauty to this almost arid looking sandy oasis where coyotes roam at night and hawks fly overhead during the day looking for prey and I feel a part of it.   As I make my way back to the coastline, I see four trucks parked on the sand and several fishermen cast their lines into the ocean.  The two in front of me sport entirely different attire from one another for their day at the beach.  One is dressed in the type of rubber get-up that you might associate with a fly fisherman wading in a Montana stream while the other stands barefooted and bare-backed and chested, with the exception of  his tomato-red colored sunburn on his otherwise alabaster looking skin.  I watch them fish for awhile- patiently waiting for a catch.  And then it happens.  Rubber Boots reels in a gorgeous looking trout, flounder, bass- I don’t know what kind of fish- with steady control and then takes out his tape measure to see if it’s a keeper.  I want to snap a picture but feel as though I am already invading their space by backseat fishing.  Apparently the fish is not an acceptable catch because he sets it free and I move down the beach back towards my shack.

I did not come here to recreate my previous summer experience, although having another annual adventure certainly makes life worth living for me.  I didn’t come to re-group, to catch my breath or to let go of the past.  I came to continue moving forward on my journey.  I did start writing last summer, something until then I had never done before, and I found it to be a fantastic creative exercise and outlet for myself.  And so I submitted my artist’s statement to The Compact in January and here I am, standing at the top of a dune with my back to the Atlantic ocean, looking at the shack where I’ve spent the last week.

Sunday (5/22)

I wake up early, too early I soon discover.  There is little food left to prepare or eat, so I guess my shopping skills were up to par and I now know that I can easily survive on $168.00 worth of groceries and supplies a week.  Next, I restock everything: water, wood and kindling.  I sweep off the porches, watching out for Mr. Bumble and his mate, and the interior of the shack.  After straightening up the place, it’s now 8:30am and I won’t be picked up until around 2:00 in the afternoon.  I would do this all again but here’s the thing- I am a very social person and this experience was in part a unique experiment in elected isolation.  And where I never felt sadness or any desperate need for human contact, I am ready to get back to town.  It’s at this point and time that the hours, minutes and seconds seem to stretch out indefinitely and I become a bit antsy.  But I resist the temptation to rush it all and make my way to the beach one last time.  Because in six hours, it will all be in the past just as Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day and then it’s all over for another year.  I am very grateful for this amazing week-long Cape adventure.  I had a new life experience and accomplished some more writing and exercised my mind in a way that I can’t always find time for when in my daily routine at home.  And I am also grateful for the little transistor radio that became my “Wilson” during my stay.

Thursday (9/1)

As I finally make the time to finish writing this post, It’s September 1st and this summer is about to come to an end- which is crazy to me.  It has been a very busy and productive summer for me in Los Angeles, but I really have to thank David Silva at the red inn for a great week at the inn following my Dune Shack stay.  If you haven’t seen the newly renovated bar and dining room at the historic red inn, you must go.   They were putting the finishing touches on everything during my stay at the beginning of summer.  I was happy to see Russ and Marcelo and excited to hear all about the good things happening in their lives.  It was too bad that I missed them both on their last night in town but jet lag, combined with too much Planter’s Punch and Blue Moons at T, sent me into a deep and drunken slumber the night before my stay at Fowler began.  A huge thanks to Tom and Scott for their very gracious and absolutely delicious dinner at their place upon my return to the center of town.  Perry’s is the best place to stock up on wine and snacks for any and all occasions.  I got a chance to spend more time with Rick and to say hello to Tim, Dennis, Dave, Jerry, Sam, Rand, Bob, Mike, Bob, Victor, Chuck, RJ, Jim, Dan, Joe, Tom, Joey, Rocco, Erskine, Mark, Bradley, Robert, Sean, Philip, Susan, Troy, Frank and many others in town that I enjoyed seeing every day last summer.  And I extend an invitation to each one of you to get in touch should you find yourselves in the Los Angeles area.

*  Apparently, these compost toilets, according to Chip, need air circulation to keep the units well ventilated and my broccoli scented evening was due to two things:  a breezeless night(and it was) and poor positioning of the ducting that didn’t let air flow as well as it should.