What I Am Right Now

Lately I, like Robert Frost, have been one acquainted with the night. Its chill is sturdy, my invisibility comforting. I love the feeling of falling asleep only when there is nothing more for me to see. No calculators or credit card machines, no vultures or deer, no bales of freshly cropped hay strewn across pastures like scattered dice. I need to be done with my day before I'm done with my day.

I am nearing the end of my allotted island patience, and have become so disenchanted with all this enchantment that I no longer bestow upon my days off the same adoration that I did only a week ago. I have biked until it seemed I had burned through all my muscle. I have taken over thirty photographs of a single sunset. I have hiked Turtleback Mountain twice. I have consumed my customary chai latte and lemon coconut scone at Teezer's more times than I care to admit. I have read and written at the waterfront. I have watched countless seasons of countless shows. Even my guitar--my one true everymoment companion--doesn't make the same music anymore. The Here and Now has never been a vocabulary that I have easily memorized, and this is frustrating.

That being said, I can recognize that I am living a beautiful existence. I am working hard, exercising, sleeping well, and devouring the books that I never had time to read during the school year. Currently I am in bed listening to "Arms of a Woman" by Amos Lee and drinking peppermint tea. My clothes rack is open and draped with shirts that perfume my room with detergent in a way that makes me feel as though one deep breath would cleanse me down to the soul.

I have fallen in love with a magazine named Orion who is tall and gorgeous and full of poetry. If only I could find a man who fits the same description. I am thoroughly bored by every item of clothing I own, but I think in this case I'd rather be bored than shocked. Yesterday I started the first poem I've written since my last day of classes, and it didn't end well. Actually, it didn't end at all. I put down a single stanza, had to help a customer, and never went back to it. Sometimes I wonder if that's the shape my life will take--the excitement of beginning, the breathless intention to follow through, the piercing halt that comes so quickly that I don't even realize it until I look back through my journal and find four lonely lines floating on a blank page like a ripple that never breaks.

A week ago I took a day trip to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island with a friend from UPS who is also on Orcas for the summer. In the afternoon we happened upon a treasure of a used bookstore, so packed with old titles and splitting bindings that it was a wonder the building wasn't bulging on its foundation. The poetry section was located in a small room at the back of the shop, and as is the case every time I discover such books, I ran my hand along the familiar titles, occasionally sliding one forward over the edge of the shelf just enough to see that the pages had begun to yellow at the spine, a graceful acceptance of their long life.

Among the poets I have come to consider dear friends--Mary Oliver, Pablo Neruda, Ted Kooser, Robert Frost--I found a slender green spine stamped with gold letters, The Rain in the Trees: Poems by W.S. Merwin. I slid it into my hand and fanned the pages beneath my nose before flipping the book open at random to a poem called "Before Us." By the end of the first stanza I knew I had found a kindred spirit in Mr. Merwin:
"You were there all the time and I saw only
the days in the air
the nights the moon changing
cars passing and faces at windows
the windows
the rain the leaves the years
words on pages telling of something else
wind in a mirror."
I don't need to tell you that this book is now among my most cherished of possessions. I do that--create for myself an existence in which so often words on a page are the only permanence I can kiss goodnight.

Between hunting for soul-suspending poetry and spending seven-hour shifts in the pottery shop answering the same questions and writing the same words on different receipts, I have developed a fascination with hands. It's not an obsession--not yet, at least--and rather than bordering on the absurd, it merely caresses it. I think hands are extremely telling of a life. Maybe it's because I treat mine so poorly, having practically emerged from the womb gnawing at my nails and cuticles, but I have found a new appreciation for the ways in which life transforms us, especially in the places we hardly think to notice.

Home in only a few weeks. I'm ready to say goodbye.

My Decision

It's 1 a.m. and I have to work in the morning (well, later in the morning) so I should go to sleep. I'm not going to sleep, though, because I have just made a decision: I am moving back to Melbourne.

Every morning for the past several weeks I have woken up with this knot in my stomach that never seems to unravel. It's irritating, the lack of communication between my body and my mind, two warring continents. I feel hollow. I feel nauseous. I feel overwhelmed. Since graduation--and really, way before that--I've been asked to map out my future like an atlas. It's as if only one possible future exists, and up until now I have been okay with that. It has been comforting, actually, to know that there was nothing remarkable about my post-college plans. I was going to be eating microwaveable macaroni and cheese just like everyone else my age.

Somehow, and I'm not quite sure how, I discovered that this knot in my stomach dissolves everything except for the feeling I get when I play my guitar from Melbourne or listen to my Australian playlist on iTunes or scroll through the thousands of pictures I took during my ten months abroad. The theme song of McLeod's Daughters, which I found ridiculous the first handful of times I heard it, is suddenly the most accurate utterance of my life: "It'll take some time to find your heart and come back home." It has taken some time, but I realize now without a doubt that I belong under a different sky. I won't be there soon, and I might not be there permanently, but I will be there.

Melbourne, I'm coming home.

Extremely Cold and Extremely Loud

I would like to begin this post with a statement: it's July.
Let me rephrase that: it's July...isn't it?
Before you answer, consider my ensemble for the past two days:

Yesterday:
-Long-sleeve shirt
-Sweater
-Sweatshirt
-Two pairs of socks
-Jeans

This morning:
-Wool socks
-Wool slippers
-Sweatpants
-Long-sleeve shirt
-T-shirt on top
-Sweatshirt
-Cat on lap
-Heater on highest setting (which is not all that high)

Now I ask you again: it's July, right? I could see my breath yesterday morning. No way in H-E-double hockey sticks is that acceptable for July.

The cold is making the days pass so much more slowly than they should be passing. I have to plan my meals (breakfast in particular) around how much warmth my palms can glean from the plate or bowl I'm holding. I chose poorly with cereal this morning, and had to boil some water for tea, even though I did not want tea, just to reintroduce the novel concept of bloodflow to my fingertips.

Oh good. The rain just started. Wonderful. Because, since it hasn't rained since yesterday, I was getting worried that the crops would start to perish the 5 EFFING MINUTES of sun we've had in the past 24 hours.

My boss just lent me the first four seasons of her favorite television show: an Australian series called McLeod's Daughters. It takes place in South Australia on a cattle ranch called Drover's Run. Now, I'm faithful to my Aussie soaps--Packed to the Rafters, Home & Away, Neighbours--but the deceased McLeod and his feuding half-sister daughters are a whole different breed of entertainment. The very first episode featured such intense plot points as death, inheritance, greed, lies, scandal, stealing drums of petrol from an unsuspecting lady rancher, accidentally letting the cattle out of their pen, a car accident resulting in two dead cows (well, one was dead; the other had a broken back and Claire had to shoot it in the head to put it out of its misery) and the explosion of a ute (SUV) carrying petrol. And then, in a final scene that was undoubtedly stolen from the end of The Princess Bride, the McLeod daughters and their three female cohorts go galloping into the wide green abyss of pastureland to round up the cattle to a country love song that was likely written and performed by a prepubescent city boy. No, it wasn't that bad. I have actually come to love it (the song AND the show). The dialogue was amusing and witty, and of course I appreciated the inclusion of words such as "ute," "avo," and "ta." When the episode ended and I turned off my light and slid under my covers, I couldn't help but fall asleep brainstorming ways to get back to my beloved Oz.

Also, I would like to share with you my morning triumph. Every few Fridays the garbage man comes to collect trash from the dumpster right outside the yurt (about seven feet from my head). He's a loud garbage man. It certainly doesn't help that most of the trash is stiff clay scraps, and the sound they make when they hit the cold metal truck bed is akin to dropping the truck itself down an empty well...on top of your ear. Every Thursday night I have to mentally prepare myself for the next morning's rude awakening, and even with this preparation, Mr. Vociferous Garbage Man (let's call him Vocy) is always a surprise. Time after time I am jolted from sweet slumber by the cacophonous noise that could, to my groggy mind, only mean one thing: 2012 has come early. Now you may be thinking, "Oh, the inhumanity! Where is the triumph in this story?" The triumph is here: this morning I was awake--get this--before the truck arrived. That's right. I outsmarted the Orcas Island trash collecting system. I heard Vocy snorting up the driveway in his beast of a truck as I sat happily at my computer watching Lie to Me (my new favorite show) and cheerfully munching on cereal with fresh peach slices. As he approached the yurt, I couldn't help but think, with a sly grin, "You're too late, Vociferous! You can ruin some other poor sap's slumber this morning, but I'm through with your shenanigans! I am moving on."

Olivia for the win.

Also, Mama: still no Orca sightings. I have, however, made several positive kelp identifications.

Olivia's Go-To Shop Guide

I have been on the island for officially one month and one day, and the weeks are finally beginning to pass in a timely manner. I'm getting more comfortable in the shop, which basically means that I no longer stiffen in pre-death rigor mortis when the phone rings. It is still an unpleasant experience, answering the telephone, but so is failing to locate raisins for an entire month in the grocery store.

I would just like to take this opportunity to answer some FAQs in the shop, just in case my wide readership (and by wide readership, I mean, of course, my parents) shares any of the customers' confusion:
1) No, I am not the artist.
2) No, I am not an artist.
3) There are 14 artists. Yes, similar to a co-op. No, we are not a co-op.
4. No, we do not bring the pots inside at the end of the day.
5) Yes, there is a lot to look at.
6) The bathroom is the blue door on your left.
7) That cat is Duke.
8) That cat is Max.

9) Yes, we ship! (as indicated by the approximately 13 signs posted in all three buildings that state in all caps, "YES, WE SHIP!").
10) The "Okay to exit here" sign on the sliding glass door does indeed mean that it is okay to exit there.
11) I did not do anything with the sun.
12) I am not the Olivia who just graduated from Orcas High. I am, in fact, 22 years of age. Thank you for insinuating that I barely look like I've entered puberty.
13) Yes, I went to the University of Puget Sound. I don't just wear the sweatshirt for kicks.
14) I'm reading ____. Yes, it's a good book.

15) No, I am not part of the family.
16) No, I did not find the job on Craig's List.
17) Syd is up at the house. Would you like the number there?
18) We do not give military discounts.
19) We do not give senior discounts.
20) We do not give student discounts.
21) You do not get one place setting free if you buy ten.
22) I majored in English.
23) Photojournalism or travel writing.

24) Thank you?
25) Yes, the cat is allowed inside.
26) Yes, he is friendly.
27) No, the heat is in fact not on. You're experiencing what is often called a HOT FLASH. I should not be the one telling you this.
28) Good question.
29) I have no idea.
30) Because I'm just here for the summer.
31) Yes, we are hidden.
32) No, there is only one way out.

33) Right, left, veer right.
34) Yes, you can set your bowl on the table.
35) The price is on the bottom.
36) The price is on the back.
37) Yes, I can take your trash.
38) No, but my mother is.
39) Yes, I'm left-handed.
40) In fact I did know that about left-handed people.
41) You don't say.

42) I minored in Gender Studies.
43) The study of genders.
44) It's complicated.
45) I did not price that vase.
46) 5:00.
47) No.
48) Yes.
49) Sometimes.
50) That artist does not make small frog figurines.
51) That is not rhubarb.

52) Penny Sharp.
53) Ryan Lawless.
54) Matt Haeuser.
55) Levi Vincent.
56) Great. How are you?
57) You're a long way from home.
58) Yes, I will pack this really really really well.
59) UPS Ground.
60) Seven to ten business days.

I could go on, but I'm figuring that at this point I've lost the few readers I had managed to engage in the first place. I'll instead post several more photos from the Eastsound Summer Solstice Parade this afternoon, which was quite possibly the most adorable shindig south of the Canadian border.

In addition to being the much-anticipated parade day, today was also the Anniversary Sale at Island Hardware & Supply. If that sounds like the must-see event of the century, that's because it was. Twenty percent off all merchandise. Breakfast until noon. Barbecued hot dogs for lunch. Crafts for the kids. In case you missed it in the first line of this paragraph, we're talking about a hardware store. A lumber yard. It was like a freaking state fair. Cars parked along both sides of the street. Elderly people emerging from SUVs jutting halfway into the road. I half expected a policeman to show up to direct traffic, but after giving it some thought I don't think there are any policemen on this island.

On my ride back from town this afternoon, while blasting Journey's "Be Good to Yourself" and coasting down Ye Olde Death Hill on West Beach Road, I saw a vulture pecking at the stomach of a dead deer on the side of the road. Appropriately, it was right next to the cemetery.

I have developed a severe distaste for the following: the response "It's not your fault" when someone apologizes for someone else's misfortune; James Blunt; the answering machine for Eastsound's Aeronautical Services/UPS; CBC Radio.

I have more photographs, but unfortunately it is almost midnight and I have run out of witty comments. Perhaps a little Dave Eggers before bed. Or maybe I'll just turn off the light, close my eyes, and fall asleep pondering the wide variety of comments and questions that await me at work tomorrow. ("Why yes, it appears that that blade of grass is longer than the others." "Amoeba are really asexual, huh?" "Yes, my hair is naturally curly.")

Goodnight, world.

I'm Sorry...What?!

Pottery shops can get a bit tedious before tourist season starts. Here are my favorite snippets of conversations on which I have taken the liberty of eavesdropping. Little did they know that I'm notorious for remembering everything. You're welcome.

"Uh-oh. Quick, burn Marcy's wallet!"
"There's flying weird nude ladies!" (I'll let it slide that he spoke with improper grammar).
(Upon seeing several ceramic hermit crabs scattered throughout the garden): "Look, Lou! Grow your own crabs!"
"This is cute! A line of fish women! That's what we need, Sue."
"She didn't even know berry bowls existed and then she found the one of her dreams!"

And here's my personal favorite (which I don't anticipate ever being topped):
(Woman bolting in through the front door and up to the desk): "I need Nature's facility. Where is Nature's facility?" -coming out of Nature's facility- "Thank you so much! That came without warning."

In other news: RAIN. I have never in my life experienced this much wetness all day, all night, every day, every night. And I've seen a lot of rain in my 22 years. I've never really understood S.A.D. because I've come to know rain as a part of me--as inevitable as hunger. Here, it's splitting me apart, seeping into my skull, eroding fissures and canyons in my morale. I go to sleep at night whispering "Please don't rain, please don't rain," and wake up hours later to a cacophony of drops so deafening against the canvas roof that I never really fall back asleep. Walking gingerly across the grass feels like I'm pouncing on a giant wet sponge. Because the soggy wood of my deck is ice-slick, slugs manage to cross it faster than I do. Even the frogs, with their incredible synchronized acoustics, sound vaguely like they're drowning. More often than not, the sky and the water are the exact same shade of empty grey.

There's a distinct possibility that I might be losing my mind.

The First False Sunset of the Season

Well, the summer has begun. Naturally that means spending my first night on Orcas during a windstorm and consequently taking an hour and a half the next morning dumping water and pine needles out of bowls on the backyard tables at the pottery shop. No matter. I told myself this would be my summer, and what better way to start than having the only noteworthy comment by a customer be, "Excuse me, would you mind if I take a picture of your cat?" Because, of course, who would want to take a picture of the hundreds of gorgeous ceramic masterpieces, laboriously thrown and glazed and fired to soul-numbing temperatures, when there is a feline in the vicinity? Can you take a picture of my cat? Knock your socks off. He's not my cat.

Over the past two days, I have become paranoid about two things: phone calls and the crunch of car tires on the gravel. Let's dissect this, shall we? 1) Phone calls mean pottery orders. Pottery orders mean questions that I can't answer, being the only one working in or near the shop for the next week. 2) Cars mean customers. Customers mean questions that I can't answer, being the only one working in or near the pottery shop for the next week.

My evenings are spent huddled in a near-fetal position in front of my computer with my hood up and my hands wrapped around a mug of tea, obsessively watching the last five minutes of the season finale of House, in which House and Cuddy finally get together. Is this necessary behavior? Absolutely not. But here I am in my refrigerator of a yurt, inadvertently memorizing an entire scene of my favorite television show just because I'm the world's biggest sucker for romantic entanglements in medical dramas.

Also. Sue Scott from A Prairie Home Companion is my hero.