The guts of the cabin are portraits of our families, books we have read and not read and shared together, paintings done by creative friends and lovers, and a bird shrine of miniatures, oils, empty wine casks and tapestries. Similar to the insides of our own hearts, the windows into the cabin bring crucial light which forges an atmosphere conducive to napping, loving, cooking, laughing, sleeping, and holding many things dear. With the shades drawn we 
often sleep until two pm, not knowing how late it is until we wake to semis roaring past to the north, and the parrot squawking to our right, which sounds like chatter to the undiscerned ear but really means "where's my fruit ball and I have to poop!" Anyway, I bought a variegated vine to liven up the drabness of plywood which is mystical mostly but can become heavy when I am surrounded by it for long periods. It hangs by the window adjacent to the bed, which is connected to the living-room which has two large windows which let in minimal sunlight. The kitchen is the darkest room of the house, but we brighten it with dancing barefoot and inviting guests until late in the night when the sun has set but the overhead light still burns with shadows of spades and crazy eights. The blame for all this shade is the oak tangle looming above the cabin, housing hawks and vultures alike. Rosie likes to sit on the window panes and jabber on about the weather, and like her caretakers she loves a good westerly breeze.
Spiders rule these woods. In order to do laundry we must 
walk down a sandy, often flooded path to a wooden hut which enhabits a washer, dryer, the neighbor's motorcycle, and sometimes her dog. Along the way, I must dodge webs of varying height and size, and of varying occupants. Usually I run face first into elusive small sticky webs that are microscopically small and give me tingles long after I wipe them from my head. Other times, I carefully detach a banana spider's spindle from a single bamboo branch to minimally disturb my poisonous wood-mate. The other morning I looked out my bathroom window to find the largest aracnid yet, spinning a web the thickness of my pinky, I'm sure, connecting the roof to the window to the p
orch but avoiding the path, thankfully. The second image is of what I'm pretty sure are brown recluse which have been laying eggs outside of the window adjacent to the closet, where we put Rosie to stare at the spiders and try to bite them through glass. This particular window is missing a screen. Needless to say I will not be opening the window anytime soon, or venturing anywhere near the web. The photo of them was taken through glass... at an uncomfortable but supposedly safe distance. We also get what I tell myself are wolf spiders in the kitchen above the sink. I pretend they are harmless and am grateful that we have only killed three cockroaches in the house the duration of the summer.
The guts of the cabin are portraits of our families, books we have read and not read and shared together, paintings done by creative friends and lovers, and a bird shrine of miniatures, oils, empty wine casks and tapestries. Similar to the insides of our own hearts, the windows into the cabin bring crucial light which forges an atmosphere conducive to napping, loving, cooking, laughing, sleeping, and holding many things dear. With the shades drawn we 
often sleep until two pm, not knowing how late it is until we wake to semis roaring past to the north, and the parrot squawking to our right, which sounds like chatter to the undiscerned ear but really means "where's my fruit ball and I have to poop!" Anyway, I bought a variegated vine to liven up the drabness of plywood which is mystical mostly but can become heavy when I am surrounded by it for long periods. It hangs by the window adjacent to the bed, which is connected to the living-room which has two large windows which let in minimal sunlight. The kitchen is the darkest room of the house, but we brighten it with dancing barefoot and inviting guests until late in the night when the sun has set but the overhead light still burns with shadows of spades and crazy eights. The blame for all this shade is the oak tangle looming above the cabin, housing hawks and vultures alike. Rosie likes to sit on the window panes and jabber on about the weather, and like her caretakers she loves a good westerly breeze. 
