Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

  I have officially smoked all of my Montego menthol gold 100s. They were sweet going down, but this is a bitter end. I loved those smokes, and I can only get them in Virginia (road trip, anyone?). Is it okay to be sad about this, and remorseful that I didn’t savor them longer? I went through a carton in seven days, and that is pretty good for me. I know all of you want me to stop smoking, and especially to stop writing about the smoking. Well, life’s not fair. What is a menthol gold cigarette? John thinks I’m silly for smoking a brand with such a stupid misnomer. Gold? Really? As if a cancer stick could have any inherent value, any redeeming quality. Well, you know they give all this marijuana these fancy names, juicy, delicious names, for some nasty fucking plant that never did nobody no good. Hey, you like weed? I like cigarettes. We all pick our own poison. Let’s call it even. A menthol gold cigarette is just a milder menthol cigarette (I looked it up). That’s it. It’s not en...

 I’m back, back in the Florida juice. So I had to get a pumpkin hottie lottie (translation: pumpkin spice latte. Duh). Yeah, I got some of the post traveling blues, when really I am ecstatic to have survived that plane ride, blessed to be able to meet the five gray kittens living in our trailer, yet  let down to realize that home is the same way I left it: a humid trailer stained by years of nicotine abuse (waiting on one big beautiful hurricane to take it out. I’m kidding, I love my trailer). Florida is what it is. What did I expect? Some miracle to transform this place into the home of my dreams…maybe there is a place where Virginia and Florida collide, with mountains and beautiful weather. If you find out, let me know. That’s why I have to look for the magic. Yesterday was Halloween, so we went to the Turn to see the costumes (an alcoholic dressed as a dinosaur is still an alcoholic). The place was filled with childlike charisma. No one is too old for Halloween, evidenced b...

 I guess I’ve had enough of Virginia, or it’s had enough of me (Virginia is for lovers, anyways). So I’ve booked a flight back to Florida. Yes, I am going to put myself through that torture again. I considered taking the Amtrak, a trip that requires seventeen hours cigarette free  (now, that , is torture). I’d like to get the trip over with as quick and painless as possible (yes I know what I’m risking: my sanity). But I’ve enjoyed being here, despite the circumstances, despite that home is just a trailer (here and there). Really I have two homes, and that is a comforting thought; I guess they can both have custody of my heart. This is going to be a short post. I think. I’m sitting on the back steps, in the shade, because believe it or not it’s a hot day, believe it or not the sun is not partial to Florida, and there are some warm days left in fall. I’m smoking my Senecas. I don’t like them anymore. I thought about bringing a carton of Montegos back with me, but why delay the ...

 We put mama in the ground yesterday. We had her buried at Cool Spring Natural Cemetery of the Holy Cross Abbey in Berryville, Virginia. It’s called a green burial. She was interred in a pink cotton dress in a sea grass wicker casket in the woods. Everything will decompose (ugh, why am I using that word ?) naturally. I laid several colorful flowers on the casket and the rest of the bouquet by the mound of dirt. It really is a beautiful place, and her family was happy with what we chose, which to our credit we discovered by accident. I was worried over whether they were going to put a blanket on her. It can be quite cold in the ground, you know. But, yes, in fact, they do supply a blanket, the funeral director told me this.   I haven’t done many of these “things” — funerals, I mean. I put on a lot of makeup and wore a dark pea coat and large vintage sunglasses. It was a cool day at Cool Spring. It is surrounded by the mountains. I took advantage of the outdoors to smoke a coupl...

 I did not speak to my mom for almost a year. Now, this was not like me. I didn’t go a week without some kind of conversation with her — me complaining about my depressing life and her telling me to grow up (that’s what moms are for). Basically she got the gist that I was safe and sound in my Florida trailer park, whatever comfort that gave her. She was a bonafide worrier. I wish I could have assured her that my mental health was okay…mom just wanted us to take care of ourselves and be happy. I think all parents want that. You could be in a cult, but if it took care of you and made you chipper, that’s fine. Anyways, I wasn’t happy, but I was drinking to disguise that (and had been steadily since February, when I jumped off the wagon) . My sister had passed away in May. I started staying with John in July. I thought I knew what I was doing; I was just an inebriated tumbleweed, taking free beers from the neighbors and walking in the rain. I always prayed in Spanish for it to rain har...

 Oh this business with death… I don’t feel like writing. And I don’t feel like crying. But somehow I more able to summon the strength to write. As if it was that hard. It’s just the regurgitation of my thoughts. I wrote a piece called “This Business With the Birds,” and I put it on Substack, because I wanted to publish it but I didn’t want my mom to read it on the blog. Now, I really like to keep all my work on this blog, because I am very proud of it, and I think I have built something meaningful.  Mom read almost all my posts. She encouraged me to write (“Don’t give up on your writing!”). Hell, she encouraged me to write for the newspaper, even though I thought it was a far fetched idea. She adamantly  told me to stop smoking. I talked to her every day, always with a smoke in my hands, and there was always something to say, some shared feelings about our lives and the people we knew and the things we did or didn’t do and what the cats were doing (sometimes I put the pho...