Tag: photo

Post Pre-Historic

Yes, this is me. Slowly and painfully edging my way out of this place they call “pure vida”. Survivng here these years has turned me into a creature. I wanted to play National Geographic and that I did. Having stumbled onto Costa Rica, when it was wide open. Water falls, heat springs, no dirt roads, no ride signs. It was the best. It was adventuring into the wild. With the fauna and floral, size determined by season and state of the nation.

One adventure after another that have barely been touched on in this 700 page blog.

And now the party is over, (for us) and on for the next layer of fools.

I tip toed. It’s easy to see the rip offs. The lies. The beating. The murders. We have only been out in the night time here, maybe an equal to a week, in twenty five years.

I am now a fossil. One that can run, jump and swim.

But I am ready to go home. Battle the Bay Watch Babe with the Band Aid in the slit of her cheeks. I won’t Battle that bitch, I will look to the side. For a new venue. New water. One that she has not polluted and (she is a large representation).

I’ll have plenty to do.

I am packing as if I have already sold my home. It’s becoming more easy to sea. Easier to detach from since the clash with the Bahia Del Sol.

Costa Rica ain’t what it use to be.

I wish them all the luck in the world.

Pura Vida and we all know what that really means.

Poppy/Fuck Father’s Day

There has never been a Happy Father’s Day for me. There has never been love. When I asked why he always loved the children in his Morocco Shrine parades so much, I was told it was because they were poor. He could not stand me, because of his money. And I look like his mother. Born in Paris and lied to by his father. Brought to Bainbridge GA. She killed herself in 1957. The year, they played the most popular song, The People Of Paris.

I have always had a pain in my heart for her.

I was born as she died. It was not a happy time.

He was mean and brutal. But he made a lot of money. Yeah, money.

Fuck Father’s Day ~ Every year I have to look at it. Happy Father’s Day.

My first husband lured and lied to me, to get married. He wanted in on the money. Our daughter suffered. She is no longer living with us. I believe she sings with Skynyrd in Riverside Memorial. As an engineer, my ex could not help to support her in her band achievements. She was a good musician and a great singer. I look for his obituary, every day. —- Keith Edwin MacDonald, loser.

My father cared for all his children but his own. (except for Deena, I like Deena too. Most of the time. She has been the most sibling of my siblings. We created hilarious stories. We call her Hollywood. For a reason.)

Keith (my x) zeroed in on another woman, from a wealthy family. He drives a Lexus.

My daughter craved his love and got none.

And that’s why there is a psychology 101.

If money is what you want. The man was a success. If love and care was what you needed you were just born in the shit house, with no toilet paper.

Eagerton Plumbing Co. Since 1954. I do know how to install a toilet and turn a wrench dad. Thanks

Til next year.

Direction

Como Las Vacas – Live Like The Cows – This is a Costa Rican dicho. Near and dear to my heart. I was raised with cattle. A North Florida, educated Cracker. I once lived in a cow pasture. I like to live close to the the earth/with nature. I slow down. I turtle trot. I swim like a fish unchased. I swim like a fish not hungry. It’s not about me. I am blessed. Pura Vida……amigos….

Choose your path – with a moral compass.

Limbo

“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.

I’m Back

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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Hidden Violence (again and again)

Celeste knew from the birth of her death, that the family she had been born in to; the home where she had laid in her coffin, was a place of hiding.

Hide in the room. Run. Hide. Hide in the garbage can. The big man was on his way and a wide path had to be cleared.

When she moved to the pines, things changed. She had been brought to a land of violence, and money. Money Money Money.

The Skinny Boy called her from the desert. In a gravelly voice he abrasively, threatened Celeste.

There seemed to be a problem as to who f*cked who. Now, normally it was a matter of who shot who.

“Don’t you be starting rumors.” He threatened.

Then he carried on about his family. Never mind his own moral inventory.

Celeste thought to herself. And then she thought some. More.

One life, born into death.

In the background she could hear his wife. The 1/8 – Of the purple robes.

Celeste laughed.

What else is there to do?

Hope

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.

Granny Grunt Goes Fishing

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

howl

The first monkey let out its howl. It’s 5:41. Their howl is more like a growl. They are relatively small monkeys and their voice, made big, is surely some sort of evolutionary protection.

Evolutionary protection.

We could all use a pound or two of that right now.

The howl/growl has now become cacaphonic.

A lot like people life.

There’s obviously a leader. He won’t shut up. The tweets of the birds are reminiscent of the media. Different tones and paces. More chime in. Different voices. Layered.

As the cool, fresh, clean air comes through the doorway. I hear the crash of the waves.

HOWL!