Papa rolled his stones. Six feet under and no one was thinking about him. MaMa was hanging on. She rolled in dough. Controlling with the point of a finger, a smile, good food, love, narcotics and alcohol. That’s the way I remember it. That’s two fascinating people right there.
The law of averages. Who wants to be average?
*One of my scribbles.
Home is a contentment of heart – no matter where I am. I dream of the next wave.
*This is a photo of painting I took in front of a gallery in Jaco’, Costa Rica.
I call my sister. Hollywood.
*this is one of my first photos taken with my Canon 7d on the beach in Fernandina. On Amelia Island.
I gave up on the insanity of alcohol. I moved to another world called Planet Sobriety. It’s filled with laughter, deep thought, friends, nutrition, Crossfit, surfing, playing music, painting. All the things I wanted to do but couldn’t. – When I drank. – I do not miss alcohol. Nor the expense. Be it monetary, emotional or just plain trouble.
*This photo was taken on my iPhone11 on a trip to San Jose, Costa Rica. It is a mural painted on a highway column in the center of Liberia, Costa Rica.
Morally indefensible – Disrobe your social self – What you reveal and conceal – Luck; residue of design.
I purchased On The Road. A 24 dollar book with miles of entertainment for my brain. I am on page 56; still in the introduction. A foreword describing the process of Jack Kerouac’s writing and publishing. His personal thoughts on what drove him. He was divergent. Something that people for the most part do not want to be. I believe it was natural to him. He was a product of Catholicism, jazz, travel and drugs.
Continue reading New/Old StoryIn conclusion, it is crucial to reflect on our own attitudes and expectations before criticizing our surroundings. Happiness and respect are personal quests that begin with self-understanding and a sincere openness to other cultures.
Lines copied and pasted from an article in a Potrero / Uncensored Group. FB
And the beat goes on.
I have no picture. Only the one in my head. – I sat at a large table made of Guanacaste wood. I looked out at a simple building teeming with people. Waiting on people. I was at a restaurant. In the jungle. I looked at all of the gringos. And remembered the past.
Continue reading Black BeachThe underbelly – The pulse of all that is wrong
Creating a sharp noise
Silent rings ever widening
Sunshine state sonar
Undone – diligence – myopic
Escape from ferocity
Escape from greed
Escape from the streets
Of Jacksonville
Twisted hate
Peace and love
Churning like the currents of the river
I woke up dreaming
My I phone in my hand
The impact of reality
Human character - Hidden violence
The underbelly – The pulse of all that is wrong
To all of my regular readers, thank you. We have hung in there.
This is still a personal journal, but with a new twist. I have joined a writer’s group. I never thought this would be possible here in the tropics. I am grateful. Once a week I get to meet with other writers and artists. We have discussions about the how to get our work out there.
Continue reading I’m PregnantOut in the swamp, in Baldwin, Florida, under the earth, by a body of water, lay the bones of black men. Stolen from the streets of Jacksonville. Killed by vicious, backwoods moonshiners. Men who believed black people were like animals. Convinced they were animals. Put on this earth to be supportive of them. To provide a service; be it barking to protect, pulling a plow, or a source of transportation.
If they were of no use any longer. You kill ’em.
Now some people think killin means shootin. Not thinking, that if you want to kill a man, at an illegal whiskey operation, you don’t want to create an explosive sound. One that would draw attention to your egregious deed. You can slit their throat. Shove their face in the convenient mud. Suffocating their life’s energy. Laugh at their struggle. Why deprive yourself of the entertainment?
You could drown them in the creek and feed them to the gators. Save the time of diggin a grave. And you know those white, backwoods moonshiners didn’t do any digging. It would be a good guess those demoralized, threatened, tortured, helpless men, dug their own graves. Their flesh and bones long ago decayed. Now consumed by the swamp ooze that abounds in Florida.
Stagnant – missing – lost.
But all of this is an educated guess. We don’t know exactly who or how all of this happened. Pure evil murder.
But be sure it happened.
I am a Cracker by Birth – A Redneck by Default and a Peace Activist through reading, writing and education.
Fish Eye Farm 