I don’t talk about the Argentine side of my family, but my paternal grandparents are from Buenos Aires, Argentina. Can you really consider yourself “Argentine?” (I like to). I’m talking about blood. It’s like America; the people there are from everywhere. But generally if you’re from there that’s what you are. My grandmother comes from an Italian family of ten children (seven girls! and three boys). My grandfathers parents were Danish from Denmark. Argentina has a unique culture. They love the tango, they eat milanessa, and they drink mate. Do you like Messi? He’s from there! Of course you knew that. And they speak Spanish, if you didn’t know. That’s why when i was a little kid I thought my grandparents were from Spain because they spoke Spanish, silly me. But there is a lot of Spanish influence in Argentina, and more generally a European influence. My grandmother has always told me she speaks Castallano Spanish, which is a more pure, refined form of the language, as disting...
I didn’t write when I was actively drinking, focused on more immediate sources of pleasure. Plus, the way I drank didn’t permit introspection; noticing the flowers, commenting on the taste of beer. Anne Lamott was different, going to writing retreats with her own stash of liquor, getting drunk off her ass ( my forte as well). Anyways, I didn’t (drink in moderation) imbibe just enough to get in the writing spirit, but enough to obscure my thoughts and my handwriting to slurred letters. I liked to consume: music. It was all about the music, what song could evoke the most emotional of emotions: “Free Bird,” “The Crow Chasing the Butterfly,” “Closer to the Heart,” “More than a Feeling.” But it was feel good music too: Sugar Ray, Chicago, Rush (I like the alliteration there). I would work YouTube until I was blurry-eyed and spent, when John would take burning cigarette out of my hand and put me to bed. He bought a new speaker set, sensing my enthusiasm for loud tunes. I tried to look u...
We went for a walk in Spruce Creek Park. It’s down the road from our house, heading south towards New Smyrna Beach. We walked through the woods, over several wooden planks, to the treehouse. I prayed we didn’t see a snake! We didn’t (why do I go on these adventures?). Just the small holes of fiddler crabs. We walked up the two levels of stairs to the top (I need to stop smoking (I did not bring cigarettes with me)). What a view (and I’m not talking about the various graffiti inscribed on the wood). Then we walked past the treehouse, down a dirt road to a worn grassy trail that leads to a picnic shelter (tightly packed with picnic tables), and farther yet, past the “END OF TRAIL” sign (says who?), where there must have been water once, according a myriad of mangrove sprouts. “Is that poop?” No, it’s just small balls of dirt that small creatures move to dig holes. We could walk no further: the non-trail ended. My back was sweaty and I yearned for a cold water. The flies were c...
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