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 ShitLove is all there is.
Two beautiful men.
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.
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 *
I keep journals. Note books I use them 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.
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 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/SimpleTo 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.
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. His blue eyes matched his smile. He was a beam of light that day.
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
This is my brother, the one, the only. It’s complicated I love my brother.
Fish Eye Farm 