I lean my head back to view my burlap ceiling. Stapled and then framed in by blonde wood. It’s another artistic flair. Something different.
Just ask me about different. It has been the theme of my life.
I sent my, Who Am I post, to Sassy Silver Surfers. An over fifty ladies group, of women who surf.
It was rejected. The administrator couldn’t understand it. I laughed. Not to insult to her. But I understand that she doesn’t understand.
I live out of the box. I sit in a box, my house, I have named the Dog Box. It is next to the Chicken Coop. To my right is the Bird House. This is all a result of my surfing. A quest for adventure. What once was a corner that scared gringos. A neighborhood that they thought was ugly. I found to be ethereal. A corner on which to create my newest fairy tale existence.
I live in my own reality. That’s why it’s hard to comprehend me or my life.
The first thirty years were awful. Except for the fact that I would get up and move. I was raised by a family of dirt birds ( people that live in one spot and do not branch out). At least my mother did buy a beach house. But she wasn’t about to leave the farm.
F*ck the farm and the cow it road in on.
I don’t find it hard to believe that younger women would understand my surf life. Get in a car, drive to California and paddle out. Turn the clock back fifty years. whoah…..I’m sorry I don’t understand you. You are a free spirit. You march to a different drum.
Whatever….I am now dismantling my current jungle and re-creating. Now that’s understandable.
Wait until I’m through.
People will not understand.
And one day, I will die.
There is a swell on the way. After days of down pours, the sun has come out. It is gorgeous out there.
Who knows, I could get a photo. Proof.
Fish Eye Farm 