Social, but Separate

"They know I am a no nonsense man, that's why they've accepted me. They say, 'You know, Mr. Y, you don't put up with bullshit.' And then afterwards, they come knocking on my door for advice. It's so strange, but I can only say 'Be strong,' because you're heart is in the right place, and they will accept you too."

I think about Mr. Y's words--about the appearance of strength, about assimilation and what that even looks like in a community that lures in transients like tuna on a ballyhoo tackle. Only some take the bait wholly, though an entire school may swim in awe of the glimmer. I think about how a local possibly perceives a paradox of foreign similarity in me. My comfort. My quick sensitivity to the stings of criticism. My eagerness to show up. All for what? I shall stay in the cave. Something drew me here.

On our walk back home, I spotted these (presumably) white-crowned pigeons posing like the green parrots of Telegraph Hill, resting en masse behind the Methodist steeple. Despite the numerous electricity lines between us, I was happy to eavesdrop on the congregation.

-C

Safely Abandoned

Did this pottcake want more airflow, or a better view?

I think this picture accurately represents a large portion of the spaces I pass through in Bimini. Dreams of completion that fell to the wayside, deferred to the weathering of concrete crackling heat and metal-seeking saltwater spray. Lifted doorways prepare for the rare surge flood during hurricane season. 

The remains are always reclaimed by those less picky. A perch overlooking paradise.  

-Chris

Oh Bimini, Sweet Bimini

I haven't had much of anything stick lately. Sweep through and stick to the walls of my mind. Ideas have flown between and past, in one ear, out the other. Ideas have entered the unfurnished space and left as quickly as the planing speed boats zoom out of the dredged channel. This is a wake free zone, do not disturb! Did I forget to shut the windows again? So forgetful, I can be.

But back to the The Islands of Bimini, before that, too, slips past my tongue tip. A tarmac placed alongside shallow seas that bulb with paradaisical colors from sandy white to seagrass-tainted teal. Beware! Your wondered impression of isle idyll could soon crumble into a disappointment of dust, dirt, and neglect. Tourism has taken its toll. The initial island appeal vanishes with the overwhelming drums of passing gas-powered golf carts, a lack of shade and sidewalks, and after the seventh potato chip bag and plastic wrapper that one must trample or sidestep on his or her short stroll to the grocery store.

This blog is my honest recount after spending almost a year and a half in Bimini. More than any tourist dollar can buy, I believe Bimini requires a guiding, leading hand to redirect it from suffering the fates of its Miami neighbor, and other caribbean islands that fell victim to the human trap of development & destruction. Looking towards the elders for their wisdom. This pic peers through the unfinished 3rd floor pane of Ashley Saunders' Dolphin House, where the hope is not lost.

-Chris