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.

Angele Dulin

My grandmother. Brought from Paris. (Suresnes, Hauts de Seine, Lee – de – France)

I want to know the story. More. I have scoured ancestry.com and discovered more than I wanted to know, at the time. She was sixteen years old and lied to, by my grandfather. She was a WWII war bride. She went from Paris to Bainbridge Ga. Her name is on the walls of Ellis Island.

What a history my family has.

My father was born into poverty. Deep poverty. He was born into violence, as his father was. That was the excuse for his insanities. He wanted out and he got out. He fought his way out.

We are all still surviving.

My grandmother committed suicide in March 1957. The most popular song of that year was The People of Paris.

How to Create a Character *

You have one man, with volcanic rage, simmering below the surface of his skin. You have one woman who is iron clad and formidable, prepared to protect the family at all cost. Each has their own story, steeped in alcohol, violence and money. Smiles would turn to grimaces – smile, frown – smile, frown – it was a dodge ball game. You would eventually get slammed.

Then take the kid. Twelve years old, eager to please; anxious to get every detail correct.

The man had given orders, “Go saddle up my horse”. Continue reading How to Create a Character *

Forgotten/Not Forgotten

I keep journals. Note books I use to help me find peace and sort my life out. Thoughts on friends and finances.

I make changes in my life. However, I have the tendency to repeat. When writing things down, it becomes obvious.

The photo on the left is of my friend Connie. She was loved by many people. I had written about being with her when she passed, 2015. In the photo, we were at the funeral of Rachael Sutton. (She initiated Starting Point – you know it or you don’t.)

Connie passed with lung cancer.

As she was dying, she told me stories of her life. They were great stories. She didn’t want anyone to know. They were antics of her mother, Hazel. Poor Hazel.

I never knew Hazel, but I admired her in a way that Connie couldn’t. She wasn’t my mother.

Complicated/Simple

They say keep it simple, stupid. Which I think is stupid.

If you can live your life successfully and make it look simple, you are a hero. Life is tough as hell. First your born and maybe you have the good fortune of having doting parents. But many of us don’t. You get kicked around. Filled with anxiety.

Bukowski has a repeated line in one of his poems’ – people are not good to people – people are not good to people – people are not good to people. Reading this, I felt I knew exactly what he meant. People were not good to me. I was a little fat. I could not speak up for myself. I became prey.

Continue reading Complicated/Simple

Life in General

To be beat unmercifully, is tragic. To be unprotected is sad. To not be acknowledged is a sin.

Trauma – PTSD – Obsessive Compulsive Disorder – Gaslighting – Narcicissm – Humiliation – Threats

It’s all common every day experience.

It’s all good….enjoy your day.

It’s all good.

Have you ever had someone next to you shove paper up their nose. Then be grabbed and beat half to death. It’s good. It really is. I swear it happened to me and it was good.

My Two Dannys

I was 16 years old when I met Danny Bass. Kenny, a friend of mine, and I were sitting by the Jax Bch Pier, when Danny passed in front of us. Kenny called out, and Danny came over and talked with us. I immediately liked him. He had stellar mannerisms. He smiled, chatted with ease, and had an award, winning smile.

Kenny and I were the odd couple. He had muscular dystrophy and I had a car. That day, those moments, were the beginning of the end.

I had spent the last 5 months, picking Kenny up; driving to the beach, where his sister lived. We smoked copious amounts of pot. I’m sure we were in blue jeans, t-shirts and tennis shoes, when that chance meeting occurred. Soon after, I saw Danny at school, and we became fast friends. He introduced me to my new, and peculiar, Westside group, which was to become known as The Funk Crew, Kenny included, as well as Rooster, Mark, Friz Whiz, Chuck, Deena, David, Lil Deb, Danny, the Session brothers, and more. We all stayed “friends”, for years, until we weren’t anymore.

Danny was the hub.

When Danny graduated, he wanted to go to college. He had his own apartment, in high school. I can remember seeing him at his kitchen table. He had tried to get into FCCJ, and couldn’t. He had a job, throughout the twelfth grade, supporting himself. He was a dock loader at UPS. He didn’t know what he was going to do. I told him I could get him a job, no problem. He went to work for my Father’s company, and he became, one of us. All of my family took him in; my Dad, my brother-in-law, my sister, everyone liked him. It would be hard, to not like Danny.

Continue reading My Two Dannys