I have my jungle and when it is in limited colour, I appear to simply laze around in the shade, picking the legs off spiders, making daisy chains. I've been told again and again it's a luxurious pastime as neither pays. It's hobbyist, it's child's-play and I can't stop the coconuts falling, breaking tiles on the terracotta roof.
The rain in Monsoon has its own kind of truth but I'm packing up the legs and the chains, getting out of here. Banana leaves are tumbling brown as I take my jungle with me, packing paints, rolling canvas, leaving town, giddying-up to find a brand new second hand room.
There have been signs you see, just movements. When there are animals around, familiars are easy to come by, dead or alive they slither on the ground, through legs, hop onto shells, fill the sky with messages that I place, neatly folded, in this case. Combination padlocked, broken at 000 from the start, but locked to prevent the escape of legs.
Anything that touches the skin is only really active for twenty minutes. Absorbed, evaporated - washed, after twenty minutes the skin seals. Those twenty minutes add, and nature's breezes are absorbed so that I have become more and more at one with this place. The rains do evaporate, which is why I have locked the case.
I have no fear at the airport. I will have packed wisely, weaning out the weight, balancing the bags, carrying all the precious things that may just break. If my luggage is lost or stolen, so be it, and that's the truth - because I can't stop the coconuts falling, breaking tiles on the terracotta roof.
