66 – Joy

Joy sat in her wheel chair. She stared at the paint peeling off the walls of her poor white trash house. She could hear the roaring engines as they circled the Speedway Race Track.

It was not suppose to be like this. She hurt. She was paralyzed but her internal nervous system could move. It was a rabbit that lived inside of her. A relentless gnawing, chewing rabbit.

The love of her life gone. All due to her intoxication of a life, out of her reach, and the seduction of a skinny boy.

She picked up the thirty eight special ~ the standard weapon on the Westside. She put it to her temple and pulled the trigger.

Celeste and Agnes were riding horses with Joy. She was a weekend guest. She was so happy. She had a new friend who was “rich”. She was wearing one of Agnes’s outfits that her mother had made for her at a specialty shop.

Celeste can still remember Joy’s blonde hair. The blue and gold outfit. Clothes she never would have had on her own. When Joy smiled it was ear to ear. She was riding behind Agnes. Happy in the moment.

Later as they were putting the horses away, Agnes coldly informed eleven year old Celeste that Joy was going to get gang banged.

Furrowing her brows, Celeste asked,” What is gang banged?”

“Oh, they’ll trap her in the woods and a bunch of the boys will have sex with her. She’s poor white trash. That’s just the way it is.”

Celeste’s brows continued to furrow.

The skinny boy was jealous of Joy and anyone else that had a true love.

He planned a scheme.

He talked Joy into going for a ride in his new car. He assured her Timmy, her love, wouldn’t mind. They trusted each other.

With a grin on his face. He headed straight to the pines. He had her in the back seat, holding back his orgasm until he saw the lights of his friends’ car coming down the dirt road. He stood up, His back car door wide open, his pants around his ankles and his Gant shirt covering his genitals. The shirt wet at the bottom. He was still grinning.

“Come on y’all, I’ve got a nice piece of ass here.”

Timmy, the only one who was unaware saw that it was Joy in the back seat.

His mind exploded and his heart turned black. He acted as if he was unaffected. He said he didn’t want sloppy fourths.

He was tortured by what had happened. He never thought to blame it on his friend. It was Joy’s fault.

All their dreams, thoughts of a wedding, children a future was gone. His LOVE.

He took his gun to Joy’s house to kill her, but failed. He only paralyzed her.

Celeste asked questions again. She got the same cold response from Agnes.

No one cared. She was poor white trash.

There is joy, joy, joy down in our hearts, down in our hearts.

No one heard the gun fire of Joy killing herself.

A seventeen year old local boy was being cheered for his outstanding racing back at the Speedway. He was full of Joy.

To this day no one thinks of Joy.

Continue reading 66 – Joy

66 – Thoughts on Bull Shit

My so called sister is full of shit

I called her yesterday to discuss yet another sister who has showed up on our 23 and Me Ancestry. I don’t know why she would find it a hard to believe that this is our sister. Joan Ariel. DNA does not lie.

Continue reading 66 – Thoughts on Bull Shit

66 – $=Love

If you grew up in Jacksonville, you probably know these people. Or knew them. Or worked for them. Or they slept with your wife. Or they are your father and you don’t know it. That’s always a doozy. Or there might have been altercations. Stories old and cold. Love is all there is.

66 Currents

Ruth’s Chris, My Family and the St. Johns River

That may save you or kill you. It’s a matter of perspective.

I sat and stared at the river. The eight foot span of glass window framed the movement of the dark water. White painted lines highlighted the altering circles. it was oddly the polar opposite of a Max Peter’s painting. The black water provided the forefront and middle of the vista. A drab grey ship provided part of the back drop on North Bank.

A 390′ Navy Battle Ship was blending into the concrete facade of the Hyatt Regency. The sun shone down blanketing the vessel. Just ugly and there. But the city has plans and it will be a museum. A place where people make up stories of the past. Where one questions and doesn’t believe. Where one will believe anything they’re told.

“Do you mean to tell me a 390′ ship was framed in by an eight foot sheet of glass?”

The skeptic just had to have a voice. No matter how obnoxious.

“Yes, And you would drown trying to cross that river with those criss crossing currents. It’s impossible from this point. You would be sucked into the abyss.”

The one we’re all going to swim in one day.

66 Routes

Do you see anything wrong with this bridge?

This (my writing and viewpoint) reminds me of my life. My history as an artist. My years of living. “Girl, you don’t know where your bread is buttered.”

“Yes I do, I smear wonderful tasting butter on Ezekiel bread. I do what is good for my health. Mental, spiritual and physical. It has made me vastly unpopular. Well, as unpopular as I can get, being a nobody amongst nobodies.

When one sets out to do something, write a story, buy a house, catch a wave, track fish, deal with social climbing South Afrikaners, wrestle with new age realty contracts, log a WOD, pull a weed, read a book, share about a book, there are always decisions to be made.

Life can be complicated.

So, they built the bridge too short. Just don’t tell anybody.

Day 153

This is day 153 of the year 2022. There are 215 days left. And I am here in the moment. En Route 66…………….

“Think of the life you have lived until now as over and, as a dead man, see what’s left as a bonus and live it according to Nature. Love the hand that fate deals you and play it as your own, for what could be more fitting?” – Marcus Aurelius

Buried at Sea

This is just a journal. Nothing more or less. Just words typed on a digital page. Important only to me.

After the funeral fiascos over the past five years, and the refusal of my two oldest sisters to relinquish funeral plots, after their bold embezzlements from my mother’s inheritance, I decided to be buried at sea. The ocean has been my refuge, my entire life.

The other day I had one of the worst days. It involved lifeguards, called Nippers.

I lost it. I couldn’t believe these little boys, which they are in my eyes, the same as they see me as an old lady. And they even name themselves small boys. They removed me from the water. I was removed from the water, by little creatures that nipped and bit. I just cussed.

I wish the best for them. I hope they “save” many people. I hope they “sell” many surf instructions. That was their mantra as they were asking me to leave the water. “I am surf instructor.” Hearing that, over and over, just did something to me.

I feel buried at sea, before my death.

I apologized to them for my behavior, but the beligerent boss, (short, red head) turned his back on me.

He had a assumed I was a rich tourist. He erred in his eagerness to possibly rake in 65 an hour, which is what they charge as “instructors.”

You know what they say about assumptions.

I love the ocean. I will just go somewhere they’re not.

That was the mistake in the first place.

A synonym for nipper is nuisance.

God Bless us All

They actually named themselves after a Mongrel dog. A little nipping terrier dog. I call that fitting.