Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

 I wrote a post about Labor Day in St Augustine, but it remains in my drafts because obviously I didn’t think I had a very good time. That’s mostly due to a generous sunburn. The truth is, it was all it was supposed to be. I’ll write it now the way it happened (although I really have a soft spot for that first draft. I may be repurposing jokes).  I know it’s hot as hell in Florida and yet I will not wear sunblock except at the beach. My nicotine addled brain can’t adhere to any good advice, hence the hamster wheel of smoking and delusions. I’ll just crack it up to being in my stubborn thirties; young enough not to care, but about to fall off a cliff just over the hill. I can’t pick up the knack of flossing either. People like me should not be allowed to have health insurance.  Anyways, it did happen to be another bright and beautiful day in historic St Augustine. Google says it takes about an hour from Daytona Beach to there. I wasn’t driving. I was sipping a fresh pumpki...

 The night is punctured by sips of a peppermint tea and drags off a cigarette. I wrote a short essay about grief.  And I’m wondering what really matters: do I want to spend my days writing blog posts while revealing my life to the world? (“Inquiring minds wanna know”) There’s something so self satisfying about this venture, I have to admit. My ego lights up just as much the dopamine receptors in my brain (did you ever think writing could get you high? I’m here to tell you, yes it can! (I am not endorsing that, by the way)). If you’ve read enough of my rambling, you’ll notice a recurring theme: I’m chemically dependent, past reminiscent, and a literary junkie. I only hope there is a place in the world for this type of work. And I don’t know where I’m going with this.  This could be just a phase, or it could be my life’s purpose. The first reason is likely, and the other is far fetched. I’ve gone through a couple fads thus far. I got really into gymnastics as a kid after wa...

  I’ve realized that I am no longer grieving. I don’t know how long it takes someone to grieve. My father has been gone for three months now. But it feels like I lost him just yesterday. I wouldn’t know the difference if it weren’t for my mental calendar of time. And I’m glad time is passing because I really don’t want to live in the grief (Crying constitutes one of my only exercises). It gives me permission to move on (I know that’s sounds bad, but I don’t mean forgetting, I mean healing). It does not however make me love him or miss him any less. I get triggered by things that remind me of him, or remind me of his death. When I hear Van Halen I think of how much he loved that music and wish he was hearing it too (I believe he still can)). When I eat a tasty dish I think wow he would dig this, I wish he could try it. From ice cream to pasta (dad was a foodie). Things that make me laugh make me wish he was in on the joke. Somehow I think he is  experiencing these things...

 We went to the Daytona Beach Bandshell tonight, cause it gets kinda boring here at the trailer. And we like Chicago. Chicago Rewired and REO Survivor and Co. played the songs of REO Speedwagon and the band Chicago. And guess what? Both bands are the same dudes, with an added horn section. I’m getting immune to the excitement of hearing live music at the bandshell, but I keep going. It’s not a bad way to spend the summer. But I guess I can crank any of my favorite songs off you tube with a pair of good earbuds, than listen to mediocre hits in public. I’m just picky. And my dopamine system doesn’t function properly without “alarming” amounts of caffeine. Which is why I usually get a coffee at 7 eleven.  Gotta pregame. We spend a lot of time on the boardwalk smoking, before the show begins, and during the break, and if they’re playing a bad song. A lady saw us having a puff and figured we constituted the “smoking section,” so she decided to join us but didn’t say much to us (hey...

 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...

 Time to put that brown paper bag over my head… Because I just got back from vacation. And it was awesome! I really had a blast. I’m going to brag a little bit, sorry. John and I went to the Hard rock hotel in Tampa Bay. Because he’s a gambling man, and I’m a good luck charm (I think).  We left Daytona on a Friday for a three hour ride west. We got to Tampa around noon amd parked in a parking garage so we could walk the Riverwalk trail. It’s a two mile hike along Tampas River. It wasn’t very exciting and it was very hot, and lacking entertainment (shopping, of course). Thank god I found a Starbucks tucked inside an embassy suites. Ah, hot coffee. Yes, I’m nuts. We met a stranger who asked us riddles. Yeah, riddles. Like four different riddles, all very clever with good answers. “What fills up a room but doesn’t take up any space?” We didn’t know (the answer: light). I don’t know if they were originals, but it was cool to meet somebody, enjoying a cigarette just like us, who di...

 I tried writing about the place I’m from, my hometown, on this website; it was such a meager description it was undeserving of publication. Yeah, I deleted it. I hope I can write a better tribute. Like millions of others, im not from Florida (big surprise). I hail from El Norte (the north. Duh). I was born in Maryland, in Essex to be exact, but I wasn’t raised there. My mother moved us to the small town of Luray in Virginia (in 1998 I think). And it was a really good thing, because it was a great place to grow up. Not to mention spectacular in beauty. You know how John Denver sings about country roads? He’s talking about the Shenandoah valley. It’s my home.  Luray is settled in the valley of the blue ridge mountains, hence the Shenandoah valley. It’s the county seat, of page county, but that’s not what makes it unique. It’s home of the famous Luray Caverns. A lot of people I mention that to have no idea what I’m talking about. That’s surprising, because it’s world renowned. O...

I got to the hospital at two in the afternoon on a Saturday. My dad had been taken to the hospital the previous night by the rescue squad. I gave persmissom for them to intubate, even though that was against his wishes — I really regret that. Plus he was on hospice, so it didn’t make sense to them. I should have followed the squad car to the hospital that night. I figured this would be another one of his short intubations followed quickly by consciousness and breathing. It would be round no. 5. No, this was different.  Once again I found him laid in a bed with his mouth agape because of a tube down his trachea. The only thing was he wasn’t  sedated. The staff told me this. I thought he was just so exhausted from obvious sleep deprivation, because of the nights he stayed up (I think he was scared to sleep), that he was just catching up. It’s almost impossible to be intubated without sedation. Something was wrong. The doctor asked, since he was on hospice, would I agree to en...