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.
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.
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.”
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.
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
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.