Bukowski

I have a lot in common with Bukowski. As do many others. And that was why his writing became so popular. Like me, I could relate to his life. We have many differences as well. Who knows, after all, it was only about an hour long interview. So, how much can I really compare. He doesn’t like people. He liked a solitary existence and he liked to drink beer. He said his childhood was a hell.

A big difference between him and I was; he wrote. And he worked. I worked here and there, but he was more successful at keeping a job than I was. He would write about his experiences. I couldn’t do that. Until I finally did. Also, he said his only concern was for himself. I have been entirely too co-dependent in my life to make such a statement.

And he always wrote in first person. He didn’t write for “success”. He wrote to stay alive. (check)

He drank a lot. It looked like his choice was beer. (check)

I no longer drink beer. I quit at thirty one. I walked through the doors of AA. When I came in, it was different. A different time a different world and I loved it. It’s had its rocky moments. But I overcame them all. – Then the judges started sending in all their D.U. I. people. And in the early nineties, people began to substitute psychotropics for their inventories.

Now I have tremendous conflict in meetings. I have fat boys, that don’t like what I say. Good Lord they need to look in the mirror and while they are at it, they should record the stupid shit that they are saying.

I was all well and good with the conflict. I have always heeded to the last paragraph on page 19. Respect everyone’s share. Then started the attacks. I have been verbally attacked in the past, but this was a barrage. I believe it a result of ageism and the new hate for old timers, in general. They look at me with my grey hair and choose me as prey. They have no idea.

For example: One guy looks like Homer Simpson. He says that only the first eighty eight pages, in the Big Book count. He is disparaging of women’s shares. He wanted to buy a 5000 square foot house. And he wonders why he can’t get along with his wife. He was in meetings for 14 years and never worked a step. Now he has and he is on fire for everyone to be like him. FMR — One meeting, I was sharing my experience, of my first sponsor being Buddhist. He screamed at me, “This has nothing to do with Buddhism.” blahblahblah – The other fat boy is just fat and he thinks he’s good looking. He cut me off. He didn’t want to hear what I had to say. He thinks he is interesting.

My thoughts behind this is – What would it have been like if Bukowski came to a meeting.

WOW

I am so inspired by his words. Because I know they are true. But in a meeting he would be a challenge. It might be a better option for some people to just stay home and write.

Who needs fake authenticity.

Hush

Hush

 

I have a ghost She sings me lullabies I am her child.

I am underwater Her voice filtered By particles of oxygen.

With her I can breath I can harmonize I am her mother

God Knows

Leaning off the edge of the bed, touching the weights, that remind her of her infirmities, she rose up.

Walking in the dark, she paced herself.

She placed her elbows on the table, in front of her computer. She began to cry.

God knows, she has so much to rise above.

Portraits

Today is the ten year anniversary of FisheyeFarm blog. The above photos are profile shots of friends from Facebook. I have my camera in my hand if I go to answer the door. One thing has led to another. My life unfolds. Work with what you have. Do your best. (that varies) People first – Money second / Don’t worry – Be happy

Express Yourself

Here I am again. Who cares? I do.

I have been doing a lot of writing off line. My daughter’s passing away. My conflict with family. My internal struggles have been too much to put out there. So, I write on paper. And I write in my Pages App. Cancer is Personal. My Family is a Cluster F*CK

I encourage anyone and everyone to write. It is medicine for your soul. No one is going to care about your being more than yourself.

EXPRESS YOURSELF

A State of Being

perennial – adjective – everlasting, perpetual eternal, continuing, unending, never-ending, endless, undying, ceaseless, abiding, enduring, lasting, unchanging, never-changing

~ The spanish word for death is muerte. To die is morir. It’s a verb that indicates an indefinite change. Death is not the end.

Today is Aislinn’s birthday.

I remember the day she was born. It was conflict from the onset. My mother and sister brought me home, from the hospital. I thought it was more important, for my husband to work, but I was wrong. We needed that bonding. We needed a lot of things. THINGS we never got; love, attention, direction.

I can remember her entire life. What we had together.

One day, we all will not be – but we will.

Share Learn and Love

No Pain No Gain

Last night, I gathered with twenty two other Jacksonville writers. We had a party. Hosted by Brad and Darlyn Kuhn, at their Trout River Home, it couldn’t have been better. It was a comfortable setting, with a beautiful view.

Our motive for gathering was to meet each other, and to read our writings.

Most there were professionals. All were talented. It was an enlightening experience.

After committing, to this party participation, I believe writers are a somewhat like skaters. You put yourself out there. Getting up to read is like climbing up the pipe, knowing your getting ready to make the drop. If you don’t climb, if you don’t go, there’s nothing. But if you do, and you take that chance, you can fly. And like the skaters, the writers have bit the dust and practiced enough, to be able to put on a good show. Each take their turn. They support one another, and have fun, including ups and downs.

JaxbyJax.com is community. It’s about Jacksonville, Florida. It’s about making our hometown a better place. It’s a gathering and it takes heart!

One must be strong ~ to be a writer.

This is the advertisement for the event which is happening next week, October 15th and 16th, at the Jesse DuPont Center, which I am fond of calling, the old Haydon Burns Library. 40 East Adams St.

Come out and support your local writers, watch them skate. They make some tricky turns. It’s heady and colorful. It’s art and it’s free!

Open this link for particulars ~ https://www.jaxbyjax.com

We Are Gifted With Their Stories

See you at the park!

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. 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

Pick Your Poison

I was working on my smile…..

I have. And I’m still standing. I look at this portrait and remember. Khaki shorts, a red hoodie with the sleeves cut, always a back pack. Pencils, sketchbook and a book in tow. Cruising A1A, in the morning hours, the marsh washed, in an array of pastels. People. Louise Freshman Brown, Paul Ladnier, Judy, Biz, the woman that I pushed into tears. Trips to New York. Getting off The Path in New Jersey. it was slightly snowing. I was hoping someone would attack me. Kind of the same feeling I would get in Publix, only more intense. I use to leave my pocket book, in the cart, a little open. And hope someone would try to steal it, so I could chase them down and beat the hell out of ‘em. Bernard Marco, and his insanity. His money and his good taste. His fireplace that he had reworked, into a polynesian face, with a mouth, wide open. Cleveland Brown, his eighteen year old friend. He was eighty.. We did a photo shoot. My photos are somewhere. He changed my world, as many people did. I drove his BMW. We sailed on the river, Bernard, Rooster, Cleveland and myself. The captain’s wife said,”oh it’s nice, you brought your granddaughter.” He was a bit of a last straw. He had found a gallery for me, in New York. The same one I saw, and said, oh that’s where I would like to be. He told me how to paint, and what to paint. I was advised to do the dog and pony show. Hell no. That’s not my poison. If life is a trail to an end, why would I want to do that? My life is my own; his poison would kill me. Poison is personal.

Continue reading Pick Your Poison

I Am Old

And I Don’t Care

Aging has its advantages ~ I use to be angry. Now I’m just old. In my younger years, no matter how kind I wanted to be, I had a seething underlining. I would think I was smart and then I would think I was stupid. I re-acted to every thing. Kind of like I’m doing now.