I visited mon island de Chattel last September, restationing from the wet land of prattle, Seattle, and I ended up vacationing accidentally through December, living off cattle and nuts in a prolonged battle for survival.
You see, when I stepped off the boat, I felt the ghostly vibrations of my phone’s rattle. My cutthroat boss Jeff had said, and I quote, “Fix this small bug upon your arrival.”
But alas, my phone out here was a brick with no bars: I had no access to work, no link back to Seattle, And so I set out for higher ground, guided only by stars, hunting for the reception needed for my connection’s revival.
The trails were long and windy, potentially fatal, often alarming, but I pushed forcefully through nature, unknowingly prenatal, slowly acclimating to the simplicity I surprisingly found charming, until the weary drive of my professional life found in nature a rival.
And so I stayed on Chattel, drinking and bathing in its essence, finding my own way, living off the land, becoming again stable, all while hunting for reception during a slow acquiescence:
Chattel is my home now, my refuge away from working to death, and I plan to stay right here until I breathe my last, smiling breath.