Lamma Island, 11:50AM – Breezy.

Entry 84

A girl with black hair dyed bright blonde riding in the flatbed of a VV careening down the hill smiles at me. The hill smiles at me. I smile back. The cicadas are mid-performance.

Last night, vivid dreams that, if described now, sound like Sally Rooney titles: conversations with friends and normal people. And this morning is in the same Rooneyish vein. Bare mattresses. Sleeping nude. Lingering headaches. Enough cash withdrawn to buy chicken, beans, choisam, and a packet of ground coffee. What would Sally think of Lamma? Surely, she’d love it. Would she like choisam though?

The power cuts just as I sit down to breakfast.

Apparently, electricity is not needed to make iced coffee.

Last night I laughed with friends who make this place Oz even though I’ve never lived in Kansas. If I had ruby slippers, it’s unclear where they’d take me.

The power comes back.

I open a six-week-old issue of the New Yorker. Maurice Denis is quoted saying that paintings are “a flat surface covered with colors assembled in a certain order.” And so are the first five days of May.