Prisons in Paradise

I am writing under my sun umbrella. A moth keeps pestering me getting lost in my wet hair. I shoo him away five times trying to resist killing him. I hear sirens. Lily is wet hiding in a cold hole she dug in the sand under the picnic table. It's breezy. I hear the birds and the rustling leaves. I feel lucky. Thunderstorms are possible.

Habit is the muse. As kids we watched our mother shop for bargain-priced lettuce driving around to visit three supermarkets, ruining her workday. Self-employment means having a few ground rules for building good habits but at the same time not being a fascist. Doing a load of laundry or vacuuming the kitchen is not cheating, it's a big reward like taking a walk or a swim.

When I'm writing in a good frame of mind I can see that my brain is still writing long after I've put the pen down. At these lucky moments it continues to nourish me no matter what I am doing.

The loud family has a new window fan for their four kids but I have a feeling they are still too hot and that's why tempers are flying. Four kids with screaming parents and nothing but a hot apartment is a prison in hell, opposed to those prisons in paradise that I participate in.

Lily is covered in wet sand. I hosed off my magenta blouse and put it on imagining I am in Ernest Hemingway's backyard. It's 93 degrees. My blouse has dried already. The loud family is screaming again. At least there's no drug trafficking today. The police circled the property and the word must've gotten out. All eyes are watching. The courtyard is meant to be a sanctuary for the poor families not a secret thruway for drug-lords.

Time is precious especially when the mood lifts and motivation is ignited. I hear a beer can spinning in a pocket of wind. I hose off my whole body imagining an outdoor shower like people have at the ocean. Trash is blowing against the chain link fence. The screaming family is getting hoarse from shouting. There's no place I'd rather be.