We have a trim little Snowshoe Siamese cat named Kit Kat who is a lizard chaser. This is a dangerous occupation in Southwest Florida -- not because of the Cuban anoles which are generally everywhere but because of the five-lined skinks that are secretively somewhere.

Cats on Pine Island catch and eat these skinks, usually in the spring or the fall when the skinks are jazzing and jittering in the leaves. If Kit Kat could talk she'd probably say, "I never met a skink I didn't want to eat." Vets may be in disagreement about this. But we have seen at least three dozen cats that have eaten five-lined skinks and afterwards suffered serious neural collapse. After the skink feast, the cats cannot walk. Some end up partially blind, palsied and perturbed for life. If they live. Many die.

If you want some facts on this phenomena, google my article for Gulf Coast Life Magazine. I still get email (after quite a few years) from the article I wrote about cats and skinks. Kit Kat is a hardy survivor. She wobbles when she walks, but she still gets skinks. After twelve years of the neural twitches, she still captures the elliptical and toxic lizards. I have talked to some veterinarians who believe the skink only becomes toxic at certain times of year and possibly, only when they are mating. Kit Kat's job remains as a bounty hunter of five-lined Florida skinks.

The other day, she surprised us by lying down in a bed of red and green chile that we order every autumn from a company in Hatch, New Mexico. Is this where Kit Kat got her appetite for eating things too hot to handle? By watching us eat red hot chile peppers?

We believe what doesn't kill you may heal you. In the case of chile peppers, there's plenty of evidence that these red hot wonders of the plant world are loaded with capsicum. Topically, capsicum can be used to heal the pain of osteo-arthritis, so states Dr. Andrew Weil. He also says that oil of capsicum can relieve toothache for months. Dr. Laura Shields has stated that eating chile can lower cholesterol (LDL) and prevent heart disease. Whatever: we eat it because we like it. And because we lived in New Mexico for most of our adult lives.

Kit Kat has no such story. The moment we opened our Hatch chile box, she came right up, lay down in a bed of chile peppers and stayed in a state of capsicumal bliss for quite a few hours.

Cats know best. Maybe the skinks mess up her nervous system but also promise her immortality. She's going on fifteen and, rattly or not, she's as kittenish as the day we got her. Nonetheless I'm not going to advise anyone to catch and roast a skink. Eat more chile. But before you do, lie down in a bed of it for a while and have some chile dreams on me.

Every so often I think of my friend Virginia Kherdian saying, "Writers certify the places where they live and they make them possible for other people to live there. Cities and towns, mountains, and valleys -- once written about -- become certified."

I visited Carmel, California so I could see poet Robinson Jeffers' handmade stone house carved into a niche by the sea. It was smaller than I imagined but it certified the surroundings well enough with its stern, stone authenticity. A great poet touched every one of those rocks, I said to myself, as I touched them too.

What tree hugger hasn't been to Walden?

What Hemingway addict hasn't touched down at Key West and seen the old Spanish style house at 907 Whitehead?

And I wonder how many readers have gone to Guilford, Vermont and taken the little back country dirt road along the Green River to see poet Bob Arnold's blackboard perched above the road. There are poems, fresh poems, every day on that blackboard, and set off in the hillside there is a stone house like Jeffers' and two more gnome houses, as I like to say, bejeweling the hills, chock full of books, a printing press and other mysteries. The main house is bright red, beaming with passion. The land all round is all round, as Gertrude Stein might say.

You get a feeling a poet lives there. I've dubbed the place Arnoldia. It's fully certified and if Richard Brautigan imagined houses made from watermelon sugar, I can just as easily imagine Arnoldia's sculpted out of maple sugar. But enough metaphor. Let the poet speak for himself.

SUN UP

I get up with
The birds who
Get up with me


WAIT

All evening
A swallow has
Swept the grassy
Farmyard for one
Shed goose
Feather to stitch
Into her nest --
It is easy enough
For me to pick
Up -- but I watch
Instead, until
She has it

___

I showed one of Bob's books to a friend at a party the other night and I read a few aloud by candlelight. Someone said, "I could write those. I could write like that!" I smiled, and thought, Sure you could. But you would have to be a Zen master and write poetry for the next fifty years.

Cid Corman put it better, I think, when he said this about Bob's writing --"Every word is love, loved, lovely. What else is poetry?"

I have known Bob Arnold and loved his poetry for more than thirty years. We've known each other that long, but only one year ago did we meet for the first time in the flesh. I journeyed from Florida up to Arnoldia. I wasn't disappointed; it's a magical dimension of the human soul and right now a beckoning dream of autumnal nature, and there's a bonus -- you get to meet Bob's wife Susan. Susan's the star of so many of his finest poems -- she lives and breathes in all of them, giving his poetry the scent of a woman as well as the green, gold, and russet leaves.

Virginia was right. Places in the world are certified by poets and writers in poems, stories and novels and after reading about these special places of the heart, we gaze upon them differently. You may never reach Arnoldia with your own two feet, but your eyes will take you there, and so can I. Visit Longhouse -- see my link up on the left hand margin? Read the interview with Bob and then curl up with a copy of Once in Vermont.

It was Truman Capote who declared that Jack Kerouac was not a writer -- "That's not writing; that's typing." Funny, he said that. Today, more young people read Kerouac than have ever heard of Capote. As a psychologist told me, "I work with a troubled youngster who often says, "Jack Kerouac is God." At Books-A-Million the other day I checked the Kerouac shelf and there were more JK books than the Steinbeck, the Hemingway, the anybody-you-want-to-name shelf. As the millenium turned, the Kerouac estate was worth some 10 million dollars, today it's worth much more.

What does this have to do with Florida?

Typing!

Capote was right: Kerouac was a typist, a terrific typist. And he lived in St Pete in the 60s and called it Salt Petersburg. By then, he was pretty much forgotten by much of America anyway. The hippies were in, the beatniks were out. Kerouac, the media-dubbed "Father of the Hippie Generation" and leader of the beat movement in literature was broke, his books mostly unread except by those of us who treasured them. Hold that thought . . .

The other day a student asked me where I learned to type and I said from a guy named Bruce Fuller when I was in college. Bruce was the fastest two-finger typist I had ever seen, 80 words a minute on a portable Corona. He typed my manuscripts for me and always added, Finis, at the end of the story. I saw one of my early stories the other day and it was letter perfect, the type biting into the paper and at the end, Finis.

Bruce never made an error when he typed and even though he was a writer himself, he never added or changed or diminished anything I wrote; he just clarified it by typing it perfectly. I loved Bruce for that. But I also loved his swaggering piratical charisma, his big handlebar mustache, his soft deep voice, and his wild laugh. All to the good, but there was also this: Bruce was from Tampa and he had known Jack Kerouac.

Bruce inspired me to learn to type; Kerouac inspired me to learn to write. It's been 40 years since Bruce and I hung out together and almost 50 since I read my first Kerouac novel, yet the two go together. Kerouac typed with all of his fingers and he really thundered the keys, according to those who knew him. Bruce didn't thunder, he clicked and clacked, very fast. And, as I say, never made an error.

The other day, after telling the student how I learned to type -- by watching Bruce and listening to him -- I was asked by another student, "How fast do you type now?" I told him, "On the computer, on a good day, I can hit 120 words a minute." None of these kids I was talking to cared how much money I was making as a writer -- all they cared about was my typing speed. "I'm fast," I bragged. "Are you as accurate as Bruce?" a third student asked. "No one's that accurate," I replied.

Jack Kerouac has the world record probably for the most beautiful words laid down in typewriter ink on a 120 foot roll of taped paper. You all know the story. This was the so-called teletype roll upon which he typed On the Road. I asked Bruce about Kerouac the other day, and he wrote:

"What do I remember about Kerouac? Not much. I remember he was dark-complected, kind of swarthy and lumberjacky. He was always unshaven and usually pretty drunk when we encountered each other; of course I'm sure I was too, which makes memory difficult (and easy to embellish). He was always spouting poetry or quotations from other authors, or just plain shouting nonsense. We were fascinated by him. The regulars at the Dew Drop Inn must have thought we were all communists. I remember being at his mother's house in St Petersburg one evening. I have no idea why we were there. I thought, at the time, it was very unusual that such a little, white-haired old lady had such a lunatic for a son. It was all a long time ago, 1964 or 1965. I was young, twenty or just twenty-one, and immortal. I find it hard to believe that I have survived to the verge of 64."

Kerouac would've been near 47 years old when Bruce met him. Still handsome, though no longer the lean and hungry author on the book covers, he was nearing the end of his time on earth. And he found himself, not on the road, but sort of beside the road in a house that looked like any other -- 5155 10th Avenue North, St Petersburg. On the eve of his departure to Florida to live in St Pete, Jack lamented, "Mother, cut my throat!" He seemed to know it was the end even before he'd arrived.

One could do worse than be a typist. Bruce, my typing buddy, felt immortal at twenty or thereabouts; Kerouac at 47 was unsure about his immortality as a writer. He knew that his soul was immortal, yet his works. . . if he could see the kids reading him today, if he could've known, maybe he might've stuck around a bit longer, and given us all a typing lesson. I thought of all these things last night when Lorry and I saw a documentary called Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride about Hunter S. Thompson. Thompson explains in one of the interviews that he learned to write by typing the classics. He said you really get to know what great writing is, how it's structured and formed when you type something by Herman Melville. Thompson didn't mean a chapter; he meant all of it. Try typing all of Moby Dick sometime. Try typing On The Road. Or The Curse of Lono by Hunter S. Thompson. Try typing 80 words a minute on a portable Corona. First you'll have to find one. Here's to Bruce, Jack, and Hunter, typists one and all. Finis.

Carmen came into our lives right after Tropical Storm Fay. The lizard appeared a little later, but I am getting ahead of myself. Entire civilizations have been built -- I just read -- on the beauty of women, or, as in Helen of Troy or Cleopatra, the beauty of one particular woman.

Carmen is one of those beauties who makes it possible to see the beauty all around her. She walks in beauty like the night, said Lord Byron. But it isn't the night; it's the day and the hours in between the crack of dawn and the first spike of sun. There's beauty in a smile and in a snail shell. There's beauty in a hangnail, if you see it that way. I haven't and won't. But I once heard a Zen abbot say that there is no thing unbeautiful, if you see it that way.

What way?

Somehow, Carmen made all things beautiful. And her own beauty was not the lesser for it. When she saw our pond, she said it was exactly like the ponds in Australia where she is from. I don't know why but I saw the land, the trees transfigured in the moment of her saying that. The lily pads were a mosaic, the water shivered into a Monet. An anhinga flew up and its armor caught the sun and gleamed. Around the side of the house where Carmen walked, a scrubby little pile of leaf trash lay, and when she walked by, I saw a flower.

She walks in beauty, the Navajos say. Referring to Changing Woman or Mother Earth. All is beauty around her. And so it is with lovely women ... and then I saw, we all saw, the tiniest footnote to a lizard. Erik, Carmen's best friend, put his thumb next to the lizard, and we noticed how really tiny he was.

So -- to Carmen... hail to beauty six feet tall.

And to the lizard, so beautifully, beautifully small.

Tropical Storm Fay just vacated our part of SW Florida. She leaves behind her a spackling of leaves and paperwood bark pressed against our stucco walls so that they look like Japanese rice paper. She's gone now but she did make a mark, if only an artistic one on our property. We were prepared for another Charley, that monster puncher which devastated Pine Island in August 2004. Fay was a fickle, fey soft-footed lady in comparison to old Charley who punched his way into Pine Island like a wrecker's ball and left, not pretty paper, but sodden, fallen walls of houses and trailers crushed like beer cans. I wrote a poem about Charley called "Level."


Hurricane Charley tossed bass
into the sky
They came winging across the porch
not flying flew
Carpenter's level stuck in a tree
Was it level? Peter asks

__


I've seen fish swimming down the street in the runoff from a hurricane, but never seen them in the air. That was a sight to see. Fay, on the other hand, sang us to sleep with tropic music of rain and the little leaves tapping the galvan steel shutters. Mixed in with this song was the bell-ringing of oak toads. The bells and the water sounds tucked us in, put us to sleep. We woke to a green gray world, neutral and tame, with no destruction.

The power was gone. We lit our lanterns and made our coffee. Our fish, Bala sharks and Iridescent sharks -- both breeds are fresh water vegetarians with glitter coats and smooth metallic coats and the friendly manner of big puppy dogs. We love them, and in their fishy way, they seem to love us, too. But this morning something was wrong. Fay had turned off the fishes' bubble supply. They need oxygenated bubbles to breathe. Fortunately, we have a battery operated bubble-breather, and we turned it on. The sharks fairly purred over this, swimming cutting in and out of the silver jewels while we told them they were good little sharks.

All's luck, all's well, my friend the poet, Bob Arnold says. Yes, especially, if you have slept through Fay and fed bubbles to your friendly sharks and then read the papery poems on the walls of your still standing house.