Casita 3

I first came to the White Colony (which I try not to refer to as The Colony For White People) in February, 2005. The founder of the colony, Bill White, died the month I was here. He was old. It was natural. It was a strange and sad time. Bill was a peace activist and expatriate who started the colony in memory of his two children, Julia and David, who were both artists and died tragically (one of a drug overdose, the other of suicide). I get the feeling that the White Colony has always been a kind of dark and random place, but it's in the most sunny and alive of spots, and I've met some wonderful painters, sculptors, and writers here. And boy do I get work done. I mean, it's not like there's a whole lot else to do.

This time I am in the furthest casita from the public road.
(That's my house! The cute little pink house sticking out...see?)

There is nothing between me and the rain forest.
I walk the loop around the compound every day. Mangos and bananas grow with no one to pick them. On my first day a mango (a green one even, not even ripe!) landed like a bullet in my path.


I do yoga daily and base my diet around the godly avocado. My friends are geckos. I have a good groove going. And when I feel I deserve a break? There's the pool.
That white chair is where I sit and read Best American Nonrequired Reading 2007. I highly recommend the graphic memoir by Alison Bechdel. I love her!