Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

 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...

 Today we walked in Ponce Inlet; on the beach, on a wooden trail, and through the woods. A lot of people had dogs with them. We sat on the large rocks by the water, as it lapped on shore: glue-a-glug-a-glug. “I like that sound,” I said to John. We scooped wet sand into our hands and let the water dissolve it. We walked barefoot and carried our shoes. The wet sand is easy to walk on. The sand is speckled with broken shells and rocks. We trudged to the actual beach to find that the jetty is closed. There was a long black pipe stretched along the beach, perhaps connected to the barge in the water. “Do you see those poles on each side?” John said, “They’re called spuds.” Hmm. Like a potato, I thought. Everything is named for a reason; there is a history behind words (Ponce Inlet is surely named for Ponce de Leon). We saw a man surfing with a parachute in the ocean; it looked fun; he did some high jumps over the waves. “How far do you wanna go?” John asked after we had walked the beach ...

 A momma and her ten ducks waddled into the porch. I was reading a book when I saw them and I screamed; they scattered. They coalesced like a swarm, going out and coming back in. Then I lost track of them. But I looked. And there was one duckling in the field, meeping. He got separated. I tried to catch him (John said “What are you going to do with a baby duck?”) but he ran into the woods. Then Kenny got involved (“what’s going on?”) and we discovered him in a neighbor’s fenced back yard where they have dogs. He kept meeping. “He’s going to get picked up by a bird” he said. He disappeared but then we tracked him across the street, towards the water, and failing to catch him (he almost grabbed him) he went into the water and floated away. I went inside and looked up on the iPad “Can a baby duck survive without its mother?” It said not likely. I feel bad. Maybe by some miracle he will survive. 

 I went to Texas Roadhouse with my neighbors, Kenny and Ray. The hostess asked how many. I said three. “Stand over there by that ‘IceColdBeer’ poster.” Great (I’m a recovering alcoholic). Kenny said don’t look at it ( they know my story). There was a sign advertising “mocktails.” What’s the point? More like mocking my addiction ( my ex-boyfriend said he didn’t believe I was a real alcoholic). Anyways, Kenny and I got steak, Ray got boneless wings. The entree came with two sides so I got a Caesar salad and a baked potato, plus there was free bread, and we ordered a “ bloomin onion.” Ray joked with the waitress: “I’ll have that cute little bartender…(she’s female)…Oh, how about her husband?” ( He is gay). Come to find out, the waitress is from the same area in upstate New York as Ray is, near Pine Bush. “It’s a small world, huh?” He went out to smoke while Kenny and I ate our salads (Kenny brings his own French dressing). When he came back he said “I met a nice lesbian.” I ordered my...

 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...

 It’s gloomy and threatens to rain, here in Port Orange, Florida. I’m on a cigarette and coffee binge, my own C&C (Music) Factory. Stahl is rubbing off. My Luckies are stacked on top of my Newport’s, hard pack on soft pack, A Tale of Two Cigarettes, Romeo and Juliet. “Can you spare some change?” Can you spare me cancer at my own hands, so used to gripping soft sticks and flicking ashes. I see a Poem ahead. I see a writer, dead. Christopher Hitchens would be proud, minus the whiskey ( or Scotch? Seems more sophisticated).