down to zero
Amuse myself watching the fishermen on the reefs as the crew goes through its usual preparations. There's a boutre out there, one of those small sloops with a sail, looks like a sultan's slipper. Could be from the Ivory Coast.
Least they're catching something. These clowns just don't seem to be able to catch the light... the light the Poet says he wants.
Naomi's naked below the gown her dresser solicitously wraps her in as we wait. That's what it's come to: day six, take thirty something, and she's down to zero.
A peep show for the fish. Or whoever the hell the Poet thinks is out there, for sure as hell we're destined to become a cargo cult. This is the theatre of ritual, a homage to some unseen god. Can't be for the money... or I'm missing something.
Don't get me wrong. I see beauty in the freeze frame... the way we're all lined up on the sea wall like a magnificent painting.
Here we go: Naomi sheds her robe, steps up to her mark, faces the sea.