i was reading the seabird's cry last night about the writer's granddaddy who bought 3 islands in the hebrides, 500 acres uninhabited by humans, in 1937, and directly my astral body located there, though i have no idea how. i woke before dawn wishing i could go somewhere there was no money, no corporations, no, or few, humans. but i have to live like an uninhabited, inviolable island within, taking good care of my pristine state, my refuge, my sanctuary, my empty becoming. and i'm reading rosamund purcell, owl's head, about a man who bought dead ship captains houses and land and made wondrous landscapes and inscapes of human detritus inhabited by creatures who make art by eating books and simply utilizing the products human's turn to waste. one of his houses is virtually impossible to enter, the only inhabitants critters and ghosts of sea captains and lingering families and fascinated artists bent on tunneling. 
i had a little of each of these lives, enough to read the books remembering. i've lived on islands, i've done my collecting in this city, i've made an island in my living space, and i've burrowed and tunneled through stores of human and critterized detritus in maine.