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.
This is just a journal. Nothing more or less. Just words typed on a digital page. Important only to me.
After the funeral fiascos over the past five years, and the refusal of my two oldest sisters to relinquish funeral plots, after their bold embezzlements from my mother’s inheritance, I decided to be buried at sea. The ocean has been my refuge, my entire life.
The other day I had one of the worst days. It involved lifeguards, called Nippers.
I lost it. I couldn’t believe these little boys, which they are in my eyes, the same as they see me as an old lady. And they even name themselves small boys. They removed me from the water. I was removed from the water, by little creatures that nipped and bit. I just cussed.
I wish the best for them. I hope they “save” many people. I hope they “sell” many surf instructions. That was their mantra as they were asking me to leave the water. “I am surf instructor.” Hearing that, over and over, just did something to me.
I feel buried at sea, before my death.
I apologized to them for my behavior, but the beligerent boss, (short, red head) turned his back on me.
He had a assumed I was a rich tourist. He erred in his eagerness to possibly rake in 65 an hour, which is what they charge as “instructors.”
You know what they say about assumptions.
I love the ocean. I will just go somewhere they’re not.
I keep journals. Note books I use 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.
An international tourist destination. The once, lonely planet spot on the map, that people were scared to go to, is now a place that people, will sell everything they own sight unseen and traipse down here. Convinced they have found paradise. The tropics.
I had the smallest snake in my shower with me. I killed it. Then I had a tiny scorpion on the shower curtain. I killed it. This was in the last week.
As I am beginning to write the monkeys have started to howl. I love that.
I have my Red Bull. Red Bull and monkeys make the world go around.