Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

 I never thought there would be perks to living in a trailer park, but specifically of living on a street with high property value. There’s probably over one hundred homes here, but there are only eight trailers that line Riverside drive (the new Rodeo, by the way), that get their own address and mailbox (the rest of the park is chopped liver (I’m only kidding)). It’s a privilege and a perk, and I’ll explain why.  Riverside is the road that runs along the river. And the dock, the infamous dock that my posse hangs out on, is on that river. Our trailer is caddy corner to the dock, so it’s a hop skip and a jump for me to walk out there. Why does this matter? If I have to use the bathroom, of course! I can’t just piss off the lower dock like the guys do. I like a cold beverage, too. And I might have to run in the house for another one. I might need bug spray. I might have to get paper to burn. I’m running inside the house all the time (for: a new pack of cigs, you guessed it), so ...

 Breaking news!: “ The internet has made writers obsessed with becoming writers instead of writing: are we spending more time looking like writers than actually writing?” That is the title of an email I just got in my inbox, from The Stories Club written by author Lina (no last name given). And it caught my attention. Because it’s slightly funny and probably true. Are some of us just posing as writers? How, even would you do that? The article says these people buy fancy journals and spend their time in cafes ordering fancy coffees. Posing as a so called writer, but not doing the work. Playing the part. For attention, for ego boost, for I don’t know what. Perhaps it’s the new craze (“oh is that your novel you’re working on?”). I wasn’t aware of it. I can’t judge anyone for craving a cappuccino (make mine a double espresso!), and if it makes you feel pumped up to loiter in a coffee shop, do so by all means. And now I am suspicious of my own identity as a writer. Is it legit? I’m guil...

 Three years ago my hair was in knots.  I wasn’t just having a bad hair day. I had chosen, consciously or subconsciously, to forgo brushing my hair in order to focus on my one priority at that time: getting drunk. I always had a sweaty beer and a menthol in my hand as I traipsed around Riverside park. I wore my hair in one of those messy buns on top of my head, like an athlete or a ballerina would (but I had a completely different occupation (you could say I had the job from hell)). It was easy to wear it that way, as it kept it from being burned by a lit cigarette, and really I’ve never been a girl to wear my hair down a lot; I don’t have enough good hair days to wear it down, and I do have “puffy” hair. It’s been confirmed: I have thick hair. And it was about medium length then, cause I don’t recall having a hair cut in a while. The last cut I had I did myself in 2021, buzzing the back of my head and trying to do a short bob with bangs. I butchered it and it looked like crap...

 John said “you’re going to play bingo tomorrow.” I said “what?” “BINGO. Tomorrow. With your grandmother.” I finally remembered. “Oh, yes!” I told my grandmother I would come over for bingo at the assisted living where she stays; they play on tues and fridays. They have trivia and other games and activities, even a cocktail hour (which I will not be enjoying, sadly). It’s things like that that keep life exciting, cut the edge on the boredom. For me it’s my crossword and connections puzzles and jeopardy; it tickles my brain. And of course this endeavor (I wonder how you say bingo in Spanish (that’s a trick question by the way)). We are enjoying the company of three little kittens. Our adopted cat Dreamy had five, and we took three inside. Leo is a creamy tan boy (i assume), Patch is a gray kitten, with patches, of course, and Pip is a little black kitty. To say they are cute is an understatement. They’re playful and always hungry. I love having them. John says to take all the pictur...

  I’m not sure where I’m headed with this piece, but I just found a quote written in one of my old journals that has really inspired me. The quote is from the writing of Anne Morrow Lindbergh: “The best I can do is to piece together every detail I can remember, no matter how little, and blindly hope that a miracle will happen, that this patched collection of fragments may ignite somehow, and that some glimmering of the indescribable feeling may be relit in me” (from Bring Me a Unicorn). I must’ve written that down years ago, and I forgot all about it. What a gem. I’m not sure of the context of that wonderful sentence, but to me it’s all about the craft of writing.  Remembering. Reliving. Describing (even the hard stuff). I wrote that down in a marble notebook I was journaling my way through as a pool monitor in 2017. I do remember reading Anne’s work that summer. I remember the hopeless boredom and the rainy afternoons, the hot asphalt and the wild turkeys. I read many bo...

  I just had one of the best experiences of my life because i went to the Hard Rock Hotel in Tampa Bay, Florida.   I’m in love with a casino. And I’m not even a gambler. What’s wrong with me?  I seem to be embodying the epitome of living vicariously. And it’s hard to justify, because realistically these places want to create the best experience for you so you spend more money. Smoking allowed? Check. The best music? Check. Free drinks? Check…please! Just take all my money and tell me I can live here. I’m an addict dying for a hit.  I was impressed by more than the Casino. The establishment is lavishly decorated. Simple yet ornate. Quite glamorous. Even the bathrooms! Smelled delicious. Perfect lighting. Look down, and there’s a beautiful carpet, Arabian nights styled…look up and there’s a chandelier, and possibly a disco ball. They spare no expense (because they’re taking all your money, or most of it).  Men with money and beautiful women: You can be your ow...