NO MAN IS AN ISLAND -- EXCEPT MAYBE MARLON BRANDO
Marlon Brando lived on an island. In fact, I believe he actually owned the island. It was in Tahiti or maybe it was Tahiti itself. I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is that he lived on an island. At what point did he just decide he needed an island to inhabit? Do you just want to check out from civilization? Do you want to create your own civilization? Or do you harbor illusions that you really are Jalel, Superman’s father? I don’t know. Maybe forty years ago you could get away better on an island of your own. Today I think unless you really didn’t want to be contacted, you’d have some internet source somewhere on the island. Does AT&T make house calls to Tahiti? And do they tell you that you’ll have to pay $125 for a working outlet when it’s their fault you’re not getting a dial tone? Does anyone know what they’re talking about when you call service there? I digress.
Would the island have cable hook ups? Would they have both cable and satellite or just one or the other? Would the island allow dogs? Or would they only allow cats? Would the island change its mind as soon as you want to sign up to live there reneging suddenly on both the dog and cable issue knowing you gave notice not 20 days before at the current address? Oh and would you have any neighboring islands and would their drumming keep you up at night? Or some lonesome bugle at 4:30 a.m. from some band of new mothers to awaken them for a feeding whose sounds float across to your island where you’re sleeping and wakens you too even though you’re not feeding anyone but yourself? Or do the natives have rough sex every night after guzzling or passing around the saturated native blend coconut cocktails and keep you up as well?
I’m just wondering what his life was like on that island because lately myself I’ve been thinking of finding a nice island to live. Maybe I could rent a piece of grass somewhere and set up house. Not have to bother with any locals, not have to bother with anyone quite frankly. Then I could actually get a good night’s sleep in peace and not have to be awakened constantly by these little irritants. It is my “blessing” to be a light sleeper. When that started I don’t know. But they tell me hormones play a part in insomnia as you get older. In the last two years, I have found it almost impossible living in Los Angeles to get a good night’s sleep. It totally baffles me. This is not New York. I had better luck in New York, no lie. I lived in six different places in six years in New York City, all different neighborhoods and not once did I ever have to knock on a neighbor’s door at 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 10 a.m. or 4 a.m. to say, hey, could you stop throwing each other around the house at this early hour to the beat music?
I moved to a new apartment hoping against hope that it would be a peaceful, happy place to live. Alas, it has turned out be a big pain in dukah. From the ridiculous parking space I have to practically use up my steering fluid to get in and out of every day, to the key that doesn’t work on the outside gates, to the people next door whose alarm goes off at 4:30 a.m. every week day morning whose windows face mine, to the people downstairs who think it’s okay to booze and carouse and play music at 4:00 a.m. and no one will notice, to the windows that either don’t close at all or are just plain useless because of improper fitting so that there’s so much of a draft that you don’t even need to open the window, to the bathroom door that doesn’t shut, to the sink that doesn’t plug, to the fancy light fixtures with the fancy halogen bulbs that burn out the day after you move in, to the light and breeze I don’t get, to the sofa and desk I don’t have, to the closet space that is nonexistent, to the overpriced rent I’m paying because it’s “one block south of Ventura” like la-dee-dah, to the property management guy who changed all the rules on me and the reasons why I wanted to move in in the first place the day I came to sign the lease, like no dogs, only Direct TV cable, and telling me I’d have to pay $20 for water and trash more in rent. And the list goes on.
Only to find that it took AT&T three weeks and four guys to finally fix my DSL and phone line so that they would work together without interruption and not have static when talking on my phone to then having my cell phone go out on me six months before I could get another one for free. And moving from basically a cheap apartment to supposedly this really nice one to pay almost $600 more in rent and have less sleep than I was getting in the old place with some rude, stupid guy jumping around on the ceiling above me at all hours of the night.
Like what is going on? This is really confounding me. I’ve always prided myself on making good decisions and I weigh things very carefully but it would seem I sure made a mistake here. One good thing is I found a storage space outside on the patio and put a lot of stuff in there that I wouldn’t have been able to find a place for in the apartment. I hate junk all around. I like a clean, well lighted space and space is what I like to see. I tell ya, if this had taught me anything it’s that looks aren’t everything. The minute I walked in the place, I wanted it. It hit me in the gut. I’d looked at so many places and this one just hit me the moment I walked in. The last place I lived in did the same thing and the one before that, so I trusted my gut if you will. And the kitchen. What a big kitchen, nice cupboards, lots of space, all the better to cook in and eat well. See? That’s what threw me, the kitchen. We Italians can get so bowled over by a kitchen. Nothing as important as a good home cooked meal. And I’m a damn good cook too. The next important thing: a place to sleep peacefully. I missed that one in this place. The windows are too small even though I get some in every room except the bathroom which I wanted as well.
So, I wrote the note. Tried to keep it light, positive, self-effacing and taped it to the door. I hate doing that but what was I going to do? I don’t want to talk to people face to face anymore. I don’t want to knock on strange doors. I just want to come home to my little box of an island and do what I need to do after a day of working at a job I hate and get some good rest so I can get up the next morning and go to work again at the job I hate a little more rested, a little more pleasant than the day before (which isn’t saying much). And then save my energy for all the things that bring me joy that I like to do when I’m not working the job I hate. Have I gotten that across yet, how I feel about my job?
Of course, since I’m such a student of quantum physics, energy, new age, self-help, spiritual and religious teachings, all this trouble might be due to my imperfect thoughts. Of course it is but which ones? I have so many and they all crowd for space and attention. Actually, I’ve been feeling pretty positive lately so all this nickel and dime stuff, all this pissy ant trouble is a bit of a surprise. So who knows what’s working here? Maybe I pissed off the Sleep Gods somewhere and They’re making me pay. Maybe I should heed the aberrant 4:30 a.m. wake up call and get out of bed to write or make waffles or whip up a layer cake. Who knows? Maybe I can tap dance and piss off more neighbors. I’ve ruffled enough feathers already, so what’s a little tap dancing?
I just don’t know. And I certainly don’t know what it’s like on an island in Tahiti either. I do know I’d be far away from any tap dance classes and that might be a detriment. There certainly are a lot of really good things happening in my life right now that living on an island would preclude from happening. Maybe all I need is just a little vacation anyway. But some days, taking a long break on a secluded island sure sounds like the thing for what’s ailing my world.
Then again in a pinch, without the island, there’s always tap dancing.
Would the island have cable hook ups? Would they have both cable and satellite or just one or the other? Would the island allow dogs? Or would they only allow cats? Would the island change its mind as soon as you want to sign up to live there reneging suddenly on both the dog and cable issue knowing you gave notice not 20 days before at the current address? Oh and would you have any neighboring islands and would their drumming keep you up at night? Or some lonesome bugle at 4:30 a.m. from some band of new mothers to awaken them for a feeding whose sounds float across to your island where you’re sleeping and wakens you too even though you’re not feeding anyone but yourself? Or do the natives have rough sex every night after guzzling or passing around the saturated native blend coconut cocktails and keep you up as well?
I’m just wondering what his life was like on that island because lately myself I’ve been thinking of finding a nice island to live. Maybe I could rent a piece of grass somewhere and set up house. Not have to bother with any locals, not have to bother with anyone quite frankly. Then I could actually get a good night’s sleep in peace and not have to be awakened constantly by these little irritants. It is my “blessing” to be a light sleeper. When that started I don’t know. But they tell me hormones play a part in insomnia as you get older. In the last two years, I have found it almost impossible living in Los Angeles to get a good night’s sleep. It totally baffles me. This is not New York. I had better luck in New York, no lie. I lived in six different places in six years in New York City, all different neighborhoods and not once did I ever have to knock on a neighbor’s door at 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 10 a.m. or 4 a.m. to say, hey, could you stop throwing each other around the house at this early hour to the beat music?
I moved to a new apartment hoping against hope that it would be a peaceful, happy place to live. Alas, it has turned out be a big pain in dukah. From the ridiculous parking space I have to practically use up my steering fluid to get in and out of every day, to the key that doesn’t work on the outside gates, to the people next door whose alarm goes off at 4:30 a.m. every week day morning whose windows face mine, to the people downstairs who think it’s okay to booze and carouse and play music at 4:00 a.m. and no one will notice, to the windows that either don’t close at all or are just plain useless because of improper fitting so that there’s so much of a draft that you don’t even need to open the window, to the bathroom door that doesn’t shut, to the sink that doesn’t plug, to the fancy light fixtures with the fancy halogen bulbs that burn out the day after you move in, to the light and breeze I don’t get, to the sofa and desk I don’t have, to the closet space that is nonexistent, to the overpriced rent I’m paying because it’s “one block south of Ventura” like la-dee-dah, to the property management guy who changed all the rules on me and the reasons why I wanted to move in in the first place the day I came to sign the lease, like no dogs, only Direct TV cable, and telling me I’d have to pay $20 for water and trash more in rent. And the list goes on.
Only to find that it took AT&T three weeks and four guys to finally fix my DSL and phone line so that they would work together without interruption and not have static when talking on my phone to then having my cell phone go out on me six months before I could get another one for free. And moving from basically a cheap apartment to supposedly this really nice one to pay almost $600 more in rent and have less sleep than I was getting in the old place with some rude, stupid guy jumping around on the ceiling above me at all hours of the night.
Like what is going on? This is really confounding me. I’ve always prided myself on making good decisions and I weigh things very carefully but it would seem I sure made a mistake here. One good thing is I found a storage space outside on the patio and put a lot of stuff in there that I wouldn’t have been able to find a place for in the apartment. I hate junk all around. I like a clean, well lighted space and space is what I like to see. I tell ya, if this had taught me anything it’s that looks aren’t everything. The minute I walked in the place, I wanted it. It hit me in the gut. I’d looked at so many places and this one just hit me the moment I walked in. The last place I lived in did the same thing and the one before that, so I trusted my gut if you will. And the kitchen. What a big kitchen, nice cupboards, lots of space, all the better to cook in and eat well. See? That’s what threw me, the kitchen. We Italians can get so bowled over by a kitchen. Nothing as important as a good home cooked meal. And I’m a damn good cook too. The next important thing: a place to sleep peacefully. I missed that one in this place. The windows are too small even though I get some in every room except the bathroom which I wanted as well.
So, I wrote the note. Tried to keep it light, positive, self-effacing and taped it to the door. I hate doing that but what was I going to do? I don’t want to talk to people face to face anymore. I don’t want to knock on strange doors. I just want to come home to my little box of an island and do what I need to do after a day of working at a job I hate and get some good rest so I can get up the next morning and go to work again at the job I hate a little more rested, a little more pleasant than the day before (which isn’t saying much). And then save my energy for all the things that bring me joy that I like to do when I’m not working the job I hate. Have I gotten that across yet, how I feel about my job?
Of course, since I’m such a student of quantum physics, energy, new age, self-help, spiritual and religious teachings, all this trouble might be due to my imperfect thoughts. Of course it is but which ones? I have so many and they all crowd for space and attention. Actually, I’ve been feeling pretty positive lately so all this nickel and dime stuff, all this pissy ant trouble is a bit of a surprise. So who knows what’s working here? Maybe I pissed off the Sleep Gods somewhere and They’re making me pay. Maybe I should heed the aberrant 4:30 a.m. wake up call and get out of bed to write or make waffles or whip up a layer cake. Who knows? Maybe I can tap dance and piss off more neighbors. I’ve ruffled enough feathers already, so what’s a little tap dancing?
I just don’t know. And I certainly don’t know what it’s like on an island in Tahiti either. I do know I’d be far away from any tap dance classes and that might be a detriment. There certainly are a lot of really good things happening in my life right now that living on an island would preclude from happening. Maybe all I need is just a little vacation anyway. But some days, taking a long break on a secluded island sure sounds like the thing for what’s ailing my world.
Then again in a pinch, without the island, there’s always tap dancing.
posted by Maria @ 8:28 PM
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