Red In The Water

April 2017

Mosquitos and Marble Angels

I need a stiff drink.
And a shower.

The return to this lifestyle has been both comedic and turbulent, as I waltzed back to the van wearing silk and 5-inch stilettos like something out of Casablanca.
Sadly, it did not even last one day.
We are currently situated cozily behind a kiteboarding resort, or, more authentically, living in the owner’s back yard. The van is in the underbrush, so any silk dreams I had were quickly eradicated when thorns ripped a tear in my dress on the way to our home. There also appears to be a more than - moderate mosquito problem, as I have been bitten four times since beginning of this entry.
Add certain difficulties unique to only women, and you have the first hour of my evening upon arrival.

I laughed.
I cried.
I started to panic.

There are perks, however. A talented violinist happens to be living in the tent “next door,” and opportunities abound in the areas of both music and kiteboarding instruction.

Everyone’s a teacher around here.

Despite a rather rough transition, Rick, said violinist, and I, found ourselves last night at the door of a student he’d taught earlier in the day.
We casually entered the house to discover that we were effectively crashing someone else’s vacation.

We had the wrong address.

Our instruments, however, became especially useful at this moment, because we were able to explain away our indiscretion with laughter and a song.


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I was truly humbled by the moments that unfolded after our party-crashing concert.
To us, they were group of distinguished strangers on vacation. To them, we were the music.
And so we sang (after finding the right house) for nearly three hours, surrounded by faces that looked more familiar than foreign by the time we left.

Enter as strangers. Leave as friends.

I still live for those moments.
When art visibly reaches the soul of another and gives life value and meaning.
When music attaches to an environment and freezes it in time as a memory.
When the perils and pedigrees of the world are stripped bare, and all we see in each other is our own humanity.

We draw the hours together
when your minutes are dead.
For there is power in people -
and there is power in the pen.


So, for that reason, I will learn how to fend off mosquitos.
I will figure out how to ride an electric bike and not accidentally buy more groceries than I can carry home (more on that story in the next entry).

I will learn how to live without.

So that I have room for the moments that music allows in each of us.
Because that is my job-
To carve marble angels in uncarvable stone.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it turns the water
red.

Until Next Time,
Alyssa

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Alive

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I love it when she awakens.
Alive.
When I can feel her ready to begin.
She, who picks up the scattered pieces of a broken routine like a party she threw last night.
She, who lights a candle for every occasion.
She, who saves a petal from every rose.
She, who pushes through the fog of doubt and savors rain in a different form.
She, who dares to lose herself a hundred times in the same song.
She, who immortalizes her wounds and reckons with only the real truth-
That everything comes back to you.
I love it when she’s willing to go inside herself and glow.
She, who loves the sadness of strangers and the warmth of the familiar.
She, who marries her pen and her ink-stained hands.
She, who is draped around a world of silk chiffon.
I love it when she awakens.
I love it when she comes
Alive.