Island story

I was born here, I will probably die here. An island, the trees move in the breeze like my mother. The wind sometimes howls like my grandfather singing. The sea is violent and peaceful like my father who sometimes changes faces. Loneliness is a disease and I am afflicted '� badly. They all died and now I am alone.
I have dreamed awake and asleep for life wondering if there is someone else out there. I cannot see that far birds can. Water water everywhere did god put this spot here? Am I stranded? How do I know these words? I will tell you.
My grandparents said they were born here, came from the trees. A coconut fell and out popped my grandfather, he shook the tree to find a mate, my grand mother. I have searched for the famed tree since my parents died. It always seemed he was keeping something from me.
My grandfather was what he liked to call a wild eccentric, free but eccentric because not like the sea, or wind, or his family. He made up grand tales of other people in far off places with beautiful women whose hair could command the lightning, men so huge and powerful the only way they would lose anything would be if they defeated themselves, of buildings that grazed the heavens, of places called parks where all were free, exotic food that would melt into liquid, crumble '� like buildings sometimes did.
Son let me tell you a story, I have a new invention '� buildings. Once there was a man who loved buildings. He would look out every single window to make sure he got the full beautiful view. He would stand on tall ones and yell, piss, scream and shout until one day a giant bird came and picked him up by his neck and set him out in the middle of the sea never to return. The man cursed the bird for life.
He himself thought buildings were wondrous monuments to the human imagination, their height, design. He even went far enough to give them human characteristics, some were women, some witches, some a downpour of what he called luck. I wished I lived there.
He would invent fantastic places. Places where you could power yourself off will. Where you could find a large assortment of anything. Where men and women moved to the sound of many drummers,. Where food was found in copious amounts, varieties, taste, sometimes similar but as different as each grain of sand. Where in as he swore his imagination he met his true first love.
Son, I imagined that I met her in a dark place, suddenly my eyes were illuminated. There she was in every crack and crevice, the shadows couldn't hide from her. She stood motionless yet static. My imaginary first love '� don't tell grandma, last never understands first.
On the island I am left with a few things. My father was so angry that my grand father wouldn't act on his imagination that he built a drum off a story. Dad said he was filling my head with crazy ideas only dreamers have. I only caress it but like the sea, violently or softly, Grandpa says there is no room for in between. We have invented a drum, hooray. What does it make son? Tat Tat, if it's what you like then fine, play for me. He looked as if the more I played the better I became to him.
My grandfather taught me how to imagine people, we would draw women in the sand. He would draw his imaginary love naked, deep lines, wide curves, big eyes. Then my grandmother with clothes, plain, normally, no fire in his eyes. I learned quickly imagining people was fun. All you do is take this stick and move, see use your imagination. Don't tell grandma but there she is and last never understands first. They were equally as beautiful, in both our minds.
My father always said my grandfather possessed drive but never enough. So he showed him and he left to be alone to create the thinnest portion of the tree. He came back with what he called tree draw. We have it! It is done, my tales can be memorized, our drawings can be memorized, oh crablouse day! We can reinvent Lee. Son all we need now is some substance, different '� color, what could it be. Not water, no, no, no. We need berries. I will be the next Moore, Marz even. I still don't know who Lee or Moore are. See son paper, gentle fragile. Rub your hand against it. See you said like a woman you have learned.
Birds are here, Birds soar. What do birds see when riding the velvet breeze, buildings, these women, machines that run on magic. If I were a bird I would know so much more so I wish I were a bird, logic says grandpa. The other islands '� women, these creatures. My grandmother possessed a strength, something not seen. I want more out of my lonely life.
Time to sleep and dream of birds taking me away.
I wake up on a giant bird a crow with a long neck, abnormally long, we fly. Water water everywhere but land and these must be, buil '� buildings. My grandfather is pissing off the top of one. He can't notice me though so I soar. The bird rest on the tallest building around and I survey all that surrounds me. The people, the woman, I want to talk. I yell hey let your hair down, control me, no answer, on the bird once again disappointed. They can control the lightning, but me, I save myself for those brash enough to do it right. What else to see and do?
My eyes see two people behaving '� strangely, been a while. With a gentle push I float in closer awaiting a spectacle '� He pushes him violently, 'you can't'�. A slap in the face, 'yes I can, I am'�, 'who '� the world is for all'�, 'all of us'�, 'no all'�, 'is that the way it always works for you'�, ' go now'�. They are wailing their arms wildly, blood spurting, mouths inflating, eyes perturbing, it is '� I have no word, I flee.
Salutations gentle island, you would not believe what I've seen. The solace of the beaches is appeasement enough. Then the bird was gone, I was awake and enjoying my isolation, but My grandfather once told me birds can take pictures of souls as everyone thinks they see them. My soul is lonely picture that.
Son the world is a dark, cold, cruel, and scary place '� even here.

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