MICHAEL MUSIKA'S CHRONOLOGICAL DOCUMENTATION OF CREATION THROUGH WRITING, PHOTOGRAPHY, AND PERFORMANCE ON VIDEO.
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
If I stop talking and it all turns to black, it is the cure all we are seeking: Death. But beyond death lies another frontier, wherein, according to our culture, we will be faced with the same dilemma we were scared to face in the first place.
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Today everybody’s trying to say something clever, and then it almost immediately expires. Everything is more ephemeral. In the old days, if you wanted to say something clever, you had to write a novel, or die trying. Most novelists died trying.
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
A film maker portrays a deranged artist making an accurate statement about the political reality of his fictional, provincial backstory.
BEQUIA, ST. VINCENT & THE GRENADINES
We started the day in Barbados at a little hotel by the sea full of overweight English tourists. Everyone was asleep. We walked to the pier in Oistins and saw the fish market cleaning up. We had breakfast at the Surfer’s Cafe and then walked back to the hotel in the hot sun. We left our belongings in the room and went to the beach to have a swim. We looked for green lizards along the way. After that we showered, took a cab to the airport, and flew a small plane to Bequia.
Peter and Sylvie met us at the airport. There were goats grazing on the side of the small, jungle covered mountain by the runway. Rain had recently fallen. We took a pick up truck taxi cab ride to the harbor where our boat for the week, the Jambalaya, was docked. Peter is a charismatic, salty English Man. Sylvie is a kind, hyper alert French lady. We took the dingy to the sailboat and got situated.
After that Peter returns Jessie, Lucy and I to shore so we can explore the town. There is a narrow pathway that traces a cliff around a crescent moon shape into town. Jessie and I buy a colorful repurposed coffee bag and some corporate cigarettes. Lucy gets a sun hat and a map. The men at the fruit stand give the hard sell and we vacate without buying a large avocado.
William swims to meet us at the dock and returns to the boat to summon Peter. Once back on the sailboat I go for a swim. Jessie joins me. I sense danger. It arrives. I’m a strange person tuned to a faraway station. I cannot finish my dinner. Darkness falls. I cannot sleep. I ask for help from beyond the grave. None seems to arrive. I read how to do so in a book some time ago, but maybe not carefully enough. The boat rocks back and forth. Moonlight and a faint breeze pour through the hatch into the small cabin.
I wonder how long it would take me to swim to shore and find my way back to a new life. It’s hard even for the locals to make a living, and I’ve rode the credit card too hard already. Everything’s been done before by someone else, and proving one can survive having made an impulsive decision is a stunt I’ve done since I was child with increasing degrees of severity. I left my passport and wallet in the cabin and climbed up the ladder onto the deck. The moonlight still glowed before dawn. I smoked a cigarette and waited for the sun to rise.
ALAMEDA, CALIFORNIA
SEA RANCH, CALIFORNIA
Travis convinced me to drink pumpkin whiskey beer last night. He was a kind and engaging fellow. This choice in beverage was poor however. The Brewers lost to the Dodgers and had terrible body language in the later innings. This was irksome to my companion. We woke in the bright morning. The fog had finally cleared. I bought a newspaper and coffees from the Surf Market in Gualala. We played soccer on the beach inside a tiny cove, went swimming, and then took a Swedish sauna above a grassy bluff. After the sauna we performed some research in a native plant garden. For dinner we had oysters and some arugula that was nice and wild tasting. After dinner we took the dog for a long walk in the dark. The moon was large but the fog returned and swallowed it.
