“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.
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. – And what is the excuse for mine. Too much money – not enough love. Surrender is my strength. Bow before God. Give. Belief. Faith. Receive. Know there is enough.
Good morning y’all. It’s 3:30. A good time to write. I have been absent, due to the fact that people were reading this blog.
And AI’s interference. They are demeaning. I get enough of that walking in the street. I don’t need to be bothered, and I don’t want to be told by them about my writing.
I know people are loving it. They’re writing books left and write. This is dangerous. The dumb down of America.
Ok, enough of that.
I am going to have to re-familiarize myself with my blog. An entire gallery widget was removed. And I don’t know what’s happening with my photos, but they keep tagging them screen shot. That might mean that someone has stolen them and it looks like they are the photographer of my photos. That’s what I get for being so damn good.
I am full of complaints.
My family….hahaha. Now that people actually read this shitty blog. I have to think about what I say differently. Yes, I will be censoring my mind. A self monitoring, censor. Not AI coming at me. Go figure. – Me censoring. This is a bold statement I just made and possibly untrue. As some of my stories might be. Not all, but some.
It’s a new start. Difficult, but worth it. Many of the best things in life are earned. Trudging the road to our happy destiny.
Putting this post together is difficult. I have to read. I have to think. It’s good exercise.
By the way. Have you ever tried Pilates?
Noir – are you out there, buddy.
—– add on —- I’m searching for my categories – Dates and years. AI has prompted me to choose The New You. I guess they mean the new me. noOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!
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Hope can be tricky.
You hope to catch a fish. You hope the rain holds off. You hope your house is still standing when you return home. You hope your mother loves you. You hope that someone will love you. You hope for the health and wealth of your young ones. You hope that your family will find peace and love and fun. You hope that all the finances you have acquired will last you throughout your life. You hope that you don’t lock your keys in your car. You hope that your confidant stays true. You hope that the love you put forth in the world will be reciprocated. You hope that your new found sobriety will bring you closer to your family. You hope people will treat you right. You hope for your safety on the road. You hope to get your work done before you die. You hope that hope is hope, but hope is expectation. Hope in one hand and defecate in the other and see which one produces. Who is hope? Where did hope come from. She lingered in Pandora’s box. A glittery, tingly, flighty, thing. Curious. Don’t open the box. But yet it was. And all the evils flew through the air. They jetted to Mars. They dug tunnels. Once the lid is open it can not be shut. Ever. I hoped for a family. I hoped for a new life. I jumped into hope and summer salted, a tumultuous life. I hope that the good people in the hospital did not pull the plug on my son. I hope he was not alive when I heard him crying in the morgue.
I have dallied and danced with hope. I have been the quintessential fool. I don’t hope. I know better. And yet I hope. Hope whispers in my ear. I hope I don’t fall off that mountain top. I hope I catch that wave. I hope for peace and tranquility. I still see the doctor talking to my daughter, her body riddled with cancer. Like the con man that he is, offering her hope. He won her hope to view her cancer. To get a look into her body
He bought the car his daughter, Hope had hoped for. A BMW.
Hope has wings. Hope flitters and tickles.
Hope – meet work.
Hope – meet patience.
Hope – meet perseverance.
Hope meet God.
Hope – close your eyes.
Hope – step into the abyss Miss.
And KNOW that you can fly.
Good morning – I hope you have a good day.
The rope stiffened
the snake crawled
The man laughed
she was rescued from it all
Lying is an art
kicked back on the couch
or in front of the judge
Save Save Save
your money honey
When the flames rise
and you want to put out the fire
be the best liar
The Winner – NO RESCUE – for you
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 aircraft cracked in half, a seed-pod giving up its spores, an egg yielding its mystery. Two actors, prancing Gibreel and buttony, pursed Mr Saladin Chamcha, fell like titbits of tobacco from a broken old cigar. Above, behind, below them in the void there hung reclining seats, stereophonic headsets, drinks trolleys, motion discomfort receptacles, disembarkation cards, duty-free video games, braided caps, paper cups, blankets, oxygen masks. Also – for there had been more than a few migrants aboard, yes, quite a quantity of wives who had been grilled by reasonable, doing-their-job officials about the length of and distinguishing moles upon their husbands’ genitalia, a sufficiency of children upon whose legitimacy the British Government had cast its ever-reasonable doubts – mingling with the remnants of the plane, equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul, broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mother-tongues, violated privacies, untranslatable jokes, extinguished futures, lost loves, the forgotten meaning of hollow, booming words, land, belonging, home. Knocked a little silly by the blast, Gibreel and Saladin plummeted like bundles dropped by some carelessly open-beaked stork, and because Chamcha was going down head first, in the recommended position for babies entering the birth canal, he commenced to feel a low irritation at the other’s refusal to fall in plain fashion. Saladin nosedived while Farishta embraced air, hugging it with his arms and legs, a flailing, overwrought actor without techniques of restraint. Below, cloud-covered, awaiting their entrance, the slow congealed currents of the English Sleeve, the appointed zone of their watery reincarnation.
The content is rich in imagery and symbolism, but it may benefit from a few adjustments for clarity and engagement. Here are some actions to consider:
1. **Clarify Imagery**: While vivid, some metaphors could be confusing. Consider simplifying or providing context for complex images.
2. **Vary Sentence Structure**: The text features long, intricate sentences. Introducing shorter sentences intermittently could enhance readability.
3. **Enhance Characterization**: Develop the characters further to help readers connect emotionally with Gibreel and Saladin’s experiences.
4. **Strengthen Narrative Flow**: Ensure the transitions between ideas are smooth. This can help maintain reader engagement throughout the piece.
5. **Engage the Reader**: Introduce questions or insights that invite readers to reflect on the themes presented, enhancing their connection to the content.
By focusing on these aspects, the writing can become even more impactful and engaging.
An AI example of a generated title and suggestion for Salmon Rushdie’s writing.
The dumbing down of America.
The title is AI generated as well. Just think how creative Salmon could be with the help of AI.
PS – there are added tags. AI generated. Artificial.
Of course, most US citizens don’t read. Therefore, who cares.
Salmon Rushdies writing is breathtaking and out of reach for the average reader as is Tom Robbins, Isabella Allende, Toni Morrison, Djuana Barnes.
***This has been an experiment. AI improvement on the writing of Salmon Rushdie. AI is great if you do not know how to write. It’s great if you don’t know how to edit. And it’s wonderful for those that need pablum. AI has a purpose.
My soul is not for sale.
Cells are whirling. Balls are flying, Trees are snatched by the roots and tossed. I feel the race,
once again.
The winds change
I live in the lull
I sit in silence
No dream today
not yet
mind and body
push and pull
white sand and oil
smiles abound
Who are these teeth?
That SMILE
I graduated with a BFA in figure painting in 1996. When I left the university some teachers were complaining that the students wouldn’t even bother to draw. “Why should we? We can just trace.”
I left the convenience of a studio I had created. I walked away from the world I knew to go surfing and to live in CR. There has been one adventure/blustering sand filled, mud slung piece of hell after another. With rays from heaven piercing the clouds, like arrows, to my soul. And now here I am.
Fish Eye. Looking at the big picture.
I’m looking back. It’s hard to believe.
Continue reading Granny Grunt Goes Fishing
Fish Eye Farm 