This is likely my last summer on the island. I must move, and not by choice. I’ve been swept up by a tsunami of circumstance. Naturally, I am feeling nostalgic. I know that the only constant in life is change but I resist. I love the place, first wound up here in 1993 after fleeing post-riot Los Angeles, part of the white exodus. I had survived that annus horribilus, my mother dying after a long ordeal, my marriage and our recording studio business both disintegrating. I wasn’t cognizant of my dire need for recovery, in the midst of tumult, trying to flee an abusive relationship and an awful situation. Or two. But I found sanctuary here. Friends, one of whom died suddenly last month. I strolled past his cottage yesterday, now vacant but filled with memories. R provided so many of us refuge, countless parties, meals. Love. I didn’t realize how much until after he was gone. How sad is that? Ah, the proverbial lessons of adversity, the ongoing saga of loss and transcendence; what would we do without them? How would we gain perspective?

TORRENT

August’s bloom barren foxglove

Sway, last island summer

Set ablaze. Bolted from.

Sloppy spy mission complete.

Deadheads snag my crossing.

Buffers hinder streaming

But ruin is fluid,

Handily lifting my kayak,

Absconding with the ice.

Linen skin burned, I swim

the swollen moat, finding no salve

Nor catharsis on its far bank.