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.
I woke up feeling heavy. I don’t write anymore. It’s too much. It’s too personal. It’s too prickly. It’s too opinionated. So I feel it inside. I don’t write anymore. I eat more. I don’t visit my friends anymore. I wonder what they would write about, if they felt like they lived in an ant bed. If they become volatile, at least once a week. If their family is something that they have to believe does not exist, to survive. I should say most of the family. Fuckers! If their daughter had died with cancer. If they had been married to a deceitful, manipulating, physically and emotionally abusive man, who had only married you to begin with, because you were the bosses daughter. If everyone around you wants to talk about illness and not wellness. If they lived by a mill, that when the west wind blows, it has an incinerator smell. If your whole body hurt, from seven minutes of wall balls and burpees. If someone had kidnapped their dog in Costa Rica. If their daughter had managed a meth lab, that seemed sanctioned by the county officials. If they see a man on a bicycle, who looks like an alien, because his being has been ravaged by chemicals, and he is on a mission. If you’re cut off from your fishing places, the ones you have enjoyed your entire life ~ now there’s a chain. Fuckers! If your husband gets hit by a car and has to pull the bike out of a bumper, only for the car, to speed away. If your last post wouldn’t upload. If a huge white truck, almost t-boned your little Toyota and your adrenalin shot through the top of your head and you jumped out of the truck, screaming, “Are you crazy!”. If you walk around wondering why are you so re-active. If you cry at a group function, appropriately explaining your feelings, concerning your daughter’s death and are told you should be on psychotropics. If Covid was here, but now it’s not. If that seems weird to you. If you can’t be vaccinated because you have a conflict of interest, concerning bouts with shingles. Fuckers! If you have to pull off the side of the road, approximately three times a day; sometimes once, sometimes, five times, because some fool is two inches off your bumper, and you are the only two people on the road. If your mind was recently tortured by your life, your parents lives and the lives of your ancestors. If you haven’t seen your friends, in a while.
Hello ~ Good-bye
I feel better now.
Issues are like tissues. Some are stronger than others. And there is a dark hole involved.
Writing is my friend ~ Reading is my cousin
I found a different way to live.
We know it was hard; so conflicting. All the alcohol, church and backwoods neighbors, created a confusing life. Come to Jesus and daily violence, were family tradition. Wearing beautiful clothes and farm work were contrary concepts. Roadside bus stops gave way to neon signs, in tavern windows. Continue reading Juke Joint Jesus
I use to love the song, about waking up on a Sunday morning, with no way to hold my head up – having a beer for breakfast and dessert. Not having any clean clothes and stumbling through the day. I related.
Sunday’s were bad. It took me years to surrender to a Sunday. The sidewalks roll up. The only drug deals on a Sunday are a rip off. Such as, puchasing a twenty dollar piece of soap. Continue reading Sunday Morning
As a child, whenever my father was unhappy with me, and I would try to explain myself, he would ferociously say that there were no excuses.
I believe there are excuses. Continue reading Life
I am creating my personal retreat.
When you have bad habits, you do something to create a change.
It can be done.
I wake up. I thank God for a new day. I place my stainless steel kettle, on my cast iron, double burner, preparing water for tea. My kitchen window is a frame for a hibiscus hedge. They create a view of lush green leaves and red flowers. It could be worse. It’s no longer the meadow, where I watched horses and foal wander aimlessly, grazing. They were pieces, of my picturesque puzzle, of Costa Rica. From the pioneer days. A time when no one wanted to be in Potrero. They called our pueblo, the Bronx. Some, simply have no vision. Continue reading Culture Crack Up/Comfort