You've got to start simply. It has to be simple. That's where I come from, where we all come from: A brutal, effective place that splits and splits and reconstitutes and grows and becomes something amazing and interconnected and beautiful.
Life, yes sure, stories yes, yea ya yeh yae yay yaw. People. Even desert island stories aren't about vacuums. Robinson Crusoe.
I think it's the potential, all that wonderful unknown, that gets us most excited about desert island stories. Swiss Family Robinson, Robinson Crusoe, The Man From Outer Space. They're all clean slates of a sort, and the intrigue, the deliciousness, comes from watching the intertwining and the formation, the initial splits and choices the *potential* of taking the road less travelled.
The baking of a cookie, a cake, a meal.
I took drugs and stared at a ceiling that was, so it turned out, a doorway; and through that doorway came a rambunctious snake and a shy Ox. And the drugs wore off and they were gone.
I was sitting, listening to my favorite album, reading a book when there came a knock on my door. On opening it, there sat a very large snake. It smiled and winked at me, and nodded his (obviously it was a he) head behind him, to the frightened white buffalo. And then, since I live in an apartment building, my neighbor's door opened and the two animals sauntered in.
The snake, when I noticed it, was coiled around the chandelier. "Don't mind that great white buffalo." It hisssed at me.
I don't know why the talking animals didn't bother me --I suppose my life would be a far less boring narrative if I'd freaked out and a fight happened -- but it didn't.
"You locked me in the bathroom for an hour! You're fucking right I'm furious!" He yelled and slapped the wall, which made Jen giggle.
"You had a book and a place to pee, what more did you need?" Jen quipped at her boyfriend.
"To not be locked in the effing bathroom!"
. . . is a wooden block.