I am reposting this blog for a reason.
I skim through blogs and read. Idiotorial caught my attention. I followed and I am glad I did. It too is a personal blog.
At first, I gasped at her thoughts. But I knew they were important to her.
She is halfway around the world from me. Living, breathing writing.
There is much to be learned from others.
Making this choice is not difficult for me. Being born an artist I wouldn’t have it any other way. I am missing the boat that they’re on and they are missing the one that I am on.
At one time, here in Guanacaste, Costa Rica, a ponga was the way to go on the water. It was all you needed. One oar would do, if that was all you had. Get on the water and cast your lines. Fish were over abundant here. The coastline left behind, in a world of speed. Fast people living fast lives, simply were not here.
Now, the boats, people and construction is moving at a pace, equivalent of the sound breaking barrier aircraft of my youth. I lived in the country. Cecil Airfield was down the road. I would be sitting by the pool and here a boom. An aircraft breaking the sound barrier. I paid no attention. Why should I?
Today as I type, the boom here is evident. My sleepy village is alive. It’s a snake swallowing its tail.
This is a loaded question. I can say no, but I’m not stiff with my time. I go with the flow. An eclectic cartesian point rules my world. It points towards the sea. Everything else is what happens while I create my goals. Giving my time is Love.
This was written by a friend of many years. He is on his way out. We all are. I have a deep love for all humanity. I do what I call SAMM. Surf, art, music and massage. I get many compliments. But just yesterday, I got the best ever. A young man told me he felt I had a gift for helping others. He said, “it’s not just your experience. I believe it’s a gift you have.” As much time as I have spent with people, I know this was not a schmooze. But sincere. It was deeply meaningful to me. It felt superlative.
I have a goal of agape love. What’s yours?
To continue to write. To write better. To learn. I have been studying social justice. It’s been an underlying theme in my life. I have found myself at odds with people in Jacksonville FL concerning race issues. I seek peace. Discovering Thomas Sowell has been a huge plus. I would like to enroll at the University of Peace, here in Costa Rica. One term, one class. Conflict Resolution. My main opposition often insults the poor and uneducated. I don’t want to do battle. There has to be a better way. A higher road.
I am a Cracker by Birth, A Redneck by Default, and a Peace Seeker Through Reading Writing and Education.
Oh hell yeah – I stayed one step ahead of the shoe shine, two steps away from the county line. Just trying to keep my customers satisfied. Satisfied.
*I have written about it throughout my blog* My writing is full of the truth. Confessional. That is why it is obscured. But it can be unearthed. You have to want to know.
*The photo is of my 1991 Toyota that I drive on Amelia Island, FL. Land of the rich and famous. One time sunny place for shady characters. Some consider keeping this rusted, mule of a vehicle, on the road – criminal. I have fun.
*Catch me if you can.
*Whitehouse/Westide is a part of Jacksonville FL – It is called Zone 4 – which is across the board, known as a heart rate zone. It is where I am from.
*whoops – I read the prompt wrong.
The law of averages. Who the fuck wants to be average?
*One of my scribbles.
Red for the church house door. Red doors of prosperity. Red door of “do I open this door.”
I recently went to a promotion for a book by a local author. It’s something I have been doing when I am at home in Florida. Participating in the local literary community. It’s current. It’s art.
I listened to the speaker. This was hosted by the Jacksonville Historical Society. The author of his twenty something book did a fair job. I bought the book.
As I waited to have my book signed, another author stood to my left and tried to engage the writer in a conversation. He asked questions? He mentioned his writing. The author was distracted, of course. He feigned interest and obviously had no idea what his peer was talking about. I took this all in.
Then I opened the book. The words were ……….. I mentioned to the lady standing next to me, “It looks like I am going to be living in my dictionary again.” I have a created habit of looking up every word I read that I am not familiar with. This book was full of them on every page. I complained. “Why do people do this? She replied, not verbatim, “the author wants to show his knowledge of language.” I would have to say he was successful on that plane of existence.
I said, “Why doesn’t anyone write like Flannery O’Conner anymore.” She looked at me and said do you mean like in layers and ………..
I replied, Yes.
As we move forward, dragging the past into the present. Flying it high in the south. A new Confederate flag. A trending political word power. Emotive and inciting.
Murder, drama, politics in words meant for …… A new National Enquirer.
I read and comment.
I challenge.
I am deleted.
Fly High – From the Pulpit – The New Improved Confederate Flag
After a long and arduous walk across Costa Rica, Celeste finally laid eyes on the Caribbean. The town she arrived in was bleak, the ocean was overwhelmingly the ocean.
Celeste has been threatened all of her life. First is was the darkness of her home. Then it was socialization. She had to wear awful clothes, pray on her knees and talk to other children. It all seemed so pointless.
She swam at two. Rode a horse at three. She was born to be wild. Her mother introduced her to the beach. Things were good for a while. Then she left home at seventeen. Ill equipped. She suffered years of abuse from a violent, abusive husband. She was forced to live inland. Gulping in city air, burning her feet on asphalt and rubbing shoulders with hoodlums and creeps. Celeste maneuvered herself through life. She learned. Her internal life was one of question, always question. What the f*ck is going on?
Celeste’s external life was out of the box. She was called eccentric. She was smart, not dumb. She heard the walls call her an idiot. But she knew that was not true.
She died a while back and had crossed Costa Rica walking. She had to get herself across the border and into Panama. She could do it. Celeste could do anything. Anything she wanted.
Everyone else could go swim with the current. Bling Bling. Get yourself a red hot mortgage and burn yourself to the ground. But not Celeste. She believed in swimming against the current. Fuck the lifeguards. Fuck Apple. Fuck Facebook. But Instagram – she’ll keep Instagram.
With a bucket full of ocean water in one hand and a paint brush in the other, she began to create her new reality.
Fish Eye Farm 