“Limbo” can refer to a state of uncertainty, a medieval theological concept, or a 2010 puzzle-platformer video game. The term describes being in a state of suspension, waiting for an unclear outcome, or in a state of being between two places or stages. Theologically, it was the border place between heaven and hell where unbaptized souls were believed to reside.
I live in Limbo – it’s a tent in my back yard.
Limbo – it’s not for everyone.
Once upon a time I stayed at a surf camp, called the Can Licky. The owner, a woman who professed to be a witch and performed cantations owned the joint.
Like the dumb ass that I have always been. I helped her. Not with incantations, but with finances. And her children. Not a lot, but I was generous.
She had a daughter who sat in a child’s wooden chair and stared into space all day. I would bring her books back from the states. Harry Potter mostly.
Little did I know the family was Peruvian Mafia. Still are as far as I know.
God knows, the literal millions they have stolen to support their lives in CR and to keep themselves out of trouble with the drug militias. Deaths are meaningless to them. If it puts a dollar in their pocket.
No incantation from me. No St. Francis horse hair.
I ran because I was threatened.
Costa Rica has a lovely Corazon.
I try. But I have been here many years here and I have seen behind the curtain.
AI please help me write about the jackass waiter. He cried, because I complained his coffee sucked. And it did, to me.
This dishonorable and corrupt, fraudulent woman has a dark Corozon. She is maneuvering. Full of lies and deceit, working to steal land. With no regard or conscious. Like mother, like daughter. Make it sound sweet. Like she’s really nice. Like I’m really nice.
All is well, in Costa Rica.
Apology accepted.
Go suck on someone else’s corozon. You are not fooling me.
The first monkey let out its howl. It’s 5:41. Their howl is more like a growl. They are relatively small monkeys and their voice, made big, is surely some sort of evolutionary protection.
Evolutionary protection.
We could all use a pound or two of that right now.
The howl/growl has now become cacaphonic.
A lot like people life.
There’s obviously a leader. He won’t shut up. The tweets of the birds are reminiscent of the media. Different tones and paces. More chime in. Different voices. Layered.
As the cool, fresh, clean air comes through the doorway. I hear the crash of the waves.
HOWL!
My story is not one of arriving into the paradise of Tamarindo, 2024. Mine is one of running.
When I first became acquainted with the wild remote nature of Costa Rica, my world changed. The streets were dusty and bare. I would see the same hard bodied, man bunned, tattooed fellow in the street, on each trip to town. He would be walking down the hill. One man, one car – ours. It was a different world.
Continue reading Exodus
It’s 4 in the morning. Once again, I am hitting the road. A ride with a friend, to the airport, to Atlanta, switch luggage. Re-enter the country. On to Jax. Be met by a happy leprechaun who will speak with a brogue and inform us, in a light hearted yet serious manner, the antics, adventures and misadventures, of our island. Amelia.
This has been an extensive stay, here in Surfside, Costa Rica.
I never in my imagination could have come up with the life style that I now lead.
I was taught by the best.
This post is an annual check up of my blog.
Hhhhmmmm. A year ago, I was writing – I felt as if the flesh was being torn from the bones of my soul.
I can read that poem and remember. Oh, it was awful.
I came here to Potrero, thinking I was going to help, the kid, go to the University. Nada, no way Jose. This boy is going to swing a machete the rest of his life. – Okay – that took a while to process – to come down from. What a crock of mierda. – Who knows, the many piles of manure that I have stepped in, have become fertilizer in my life.
Continue reading Annual Blog Check Up
I do not understand the New Gringos. But I have witnessed it over and over. No desire to assimilate into the culture of the country.
A ride to the beach use to be like a dream and now it’s a nightmare.
I don’t care to elaborate on this freaky manner that tourism and immigration (progress) has caused.
After surviving my life’s traumas I woke up to an unrecognizable world. But I am not “woke”. According to Trump the KKK are good people. Homeless people are sleeping on the sidewalks, dying from phentanol, and some people think all white people are bad and all black people are good.
I give up. I surrender. It’s best for me to work to have a good day and be kind to the people in front of me.
To provide details of the misery I have created for myself, would be stirring the cauldron. I can’t straighten this world out. Kimberly and Kristy are behaving like mean girls, but chances are they are oblivious to their ignorance. And Ellen can remember when. I do too. The change is horrific. The people on the beach are being bull dozed over. Pura vida.
I know my heart. I am not greedy or jealous of anyone. I don’t even understand those two character defects at the moment. I can’t imagine being angry at some poor woman trying to feed her kids. Or hurt some child; not wanting them to experience a lunch, in the school hours. I’m not fearful. That’s the worst. And the best.
The answer is meditation.
This screen shot of my media pics, at a glance, are the most representative of my life at this moment.
I am taken back again. Over and over. Never disappointed at the changes in our lives; our world.
I came to Costa Rica to be an aesthetic and live with the Indians. That happened and it didn’t happen.
God gives and God takes away…I am not God.
I have a brain. I will assume that you have one as well. Artificial Intelligence is bizarre to say the least. No vision, no artistry, no spiritual connection.
Artificial
As Talwan rants on his dead stacks, I am in the jungle experiencing life. I guess Tal uses 5 syllable words to impress students. Yeah he knows what a verb is. Good Lord. The pendulum swings. The dog barks. The cock crows. The monkeys howls. And in the meantime, apartheid raises its ugly head.
As I passed the pool, young kids were taking their diving instruction. I thought, is there some way to correct this problem? I paid for a Nicaraguan youth to have diving lessons with this group. The South African leader shuffled him into Cepia. I lost my 300 dollars. Would he have done that to a white child here. What! No Way! But a Nicaraguan is viewed as less than. Someone to be a mule. Carry a load.
It’s difficult to go up against. It can be strenuous and energy depleting work. But it’s also its own reward.
I did what I could. I let it go. I place it in the hands of the historians.
I am from Jacksonville FL. A place known for its mean and racial attitude. Past and present. But I don’t mind what anyone says. It is better now.
Yes, it was a conundrum. A terrible, horrible, vile existence in the south. But not all white people were bad and all black people lovely minstrels.
How’s that for a vocabulary. Nouns, verbs, predicates. Mercy me. I think I’ll write a song.
Burglars – people have been stealing since the beginning. We have break-ins here in Costa Rica all of the time. But somehow it’s suppose to be different here. Come to think of it. It is different here.
Pura vida.
Be a beautiful bird watcher.
As you soak in the beautiful colors. The vultures are behind you, sucking up your sh*t, amigo.
Pura vida.
The words are the same. The meaning different.
I opened my eyes to an unreal and dreaded scene. My mind was saying no, this is not happening. It is happening. Damn it – this is real. My husband was halfway across the room, machete in hand. My dog was perched at my feet, muscles pumped and barking ferociously.
A drug addicted young man, probably illegal, had opened our door and was coming into our house. A crime of opportunity. The door had been left unlocked.
He ran. But he didn’t get far.
Living in Costa Rica is a game of life. A gamble. Different. Either you can adapt or you can’t. Either you live scared or you don’t.
We’re fortunate he didn’t have a gun. He was a desperate, high, kid – someone that three weeks ago, my husband had bought food for. He had been in front of the grocery store; begging. And now he was helping himself to our space. Our home.
Since this “shitty blog” is my journal, I feel the need to document. I also feel the need to write more. But I also have to clean my burlap ceiling.
Come on down to Costa Rica….catch a fish…catch a burglar.
The boat could sink – you could get hurt.
I have to go. I have to clean my ceiling.
Fish Eye Farm 