Outside my window the invasive coqui frogs cry, cheep, and chatter all night long. It’s an incessant cacophony of high-decibal amphibian mating calls and the coquis just don’t quit. Even the roosters don’t seem to sleep – they also crow in the middle of the night. It’s “poultry central” in the open area directly underneath the “farmhouse” where I’m living for the next few days. I can hear the hens cluck and scratch, and the roosters crow, below my bed.

I’m visiting a funky hippie haven on an organic farm in the “tsunami evacuation zone” on the edge of Hawai’i island’s Puna district. This part of Puna, near Pahoa and Kapoho, is a region known for an influx “coastal hippies” (not entirely welcomed by the locals), volcanic warm ponds, jagged lava fields, and the seldom acknowledged potential of fresh flows from the Pu’u O’o vent (or elsewhere, should Tutu Pele chose to open up another one).

There’s a fruit basket on the kitchen table, filled with small kine bananas never seen on the “mainland,” lilikoi, rambutans, avocados, and a small, yellowish thing with a sweet, slightly chalky or bread-like interior that tastes delicious. We’ve got papayas too – the nonGMO variety – as well as tangerines and blood oranges from a farm in Waimea. We’re not going to go hungry, though we’re out of water – the farm’s pump broke this afternoon.

None of this may sound like it has much to do with sexology, but it does. It does. This entire place is bursting with vegetation and animal life, including sex-starved coqui frogs and insistent roosters. I haven’t even mentioned the numerous dogs, cats, and a very large pet pig which appears to live indoors with the farm owners. I feel really good, really rested around this place – away from machine and traffic noise, overhead airplanes, and other, more corrosive and persistent sources of stress. In a few days, I might even rediscover myself again – body and soul – in simple actions like eating, swimming, sleeping, and… well… other things.

Meanwhile, my electronic life continues though I have to travel 10-2o miles to the nearest internet cafe to access it. There are fresh developments, though I feel somewhat remote from them at the moment. A blog I wrote for Write-Sex before I left is published now.  You can view the blog post here. I’m waiting for a few other things to appear in various places, including an interview in a fashionable lifestyle site.

I’m missing my kids and my cats, of course, but when I’m in California, I find myself missing here. It’s a funny kind of suspension, a “second life” that’s real when I come to live it. In Pele’s country, I feel myself alien yet prodigal, and that’s a curious feeling. So I walk softly, in gratitude, in fragmentary knowledge of the reasons I’m drawn here, over and over again.