There is a giant Iguana outside of our bathroom window watching us shower. About the size of Goddess, my beautiful 70 pound dog, the Iguana is gold with brown claws and stipes around its thick long tail. It's a punk Iguana because it's got spiked hair. It is not a sissy Green Iguana but a Lesser Antilliean one. And it hasn't moved in the last twenty-four hours, just lying there on the branch of a Palm Tree waiting for us to take showers. Apparently, Peeping Tom laws are pretty loose in Belize.
"Can it get inside," Sarah asked?
"Sure," I replied, showing her that the Palm Trees lean onto the third floor Varanda that we're staying in, "it'd be easy if it wanted to."
It's a big Veranda with a table, four chairs and a hammock. Two large French doors lead into a large bedroom and living room area. A good size bathroom is at the other end. The Iguana obviously prefers trees with a view.
Besides there are plenty of coconuts in these trees. The one beside me right now has about fifty green balls ripening in the sun. This reminds me that I need to have a Rum and Coconut Water today.
We were getting ready for the ten minute taxi ride back into Placentia, the small fishing village with the world's tinest road. A reggae band was playing at a bar called Barefoot which I love because that is my shoe of choice. So I didn't wear any. The Iguana seemed unconcerned about any of this.
When we arrived at Barefoot, Richie, our seven foot tall mammoth of a taxi driver, got out with us. He would hang with his friends until we were ready to leave. Besides, there is absolutely nothing else going on in this tiny seaside village.
Barefoot is an open air with no walls serving food with the bar in the middle. Tables are strewed everywhere in no particular order. Grabbing a table for two beside where a wall would have been had there been walls, locals congregate beside us just outside of the restaurant. The white ones look weatherworn and leathery and the black ones are smooth, wearing sunglasses at night or picking their massive Afro's.
Stars are ablaze in the sky and there are no lights to deminish the spectacular show that they're putting on for free. Mostly residential, the people of Placencia wander up and down the street as we order drinks. The shipment for Chardonney didn't come in so I am forced to drink a Beach Bum ... two different rooms with orange and pineapple juices. Sarah has Rootbeer.
The band took the stage and ... watched soccer while they played Reggae. A large screen television was behind them showing soccer from somewhere and the band was revited. Nevertheless, they sounded pretty good so American tourists and locals danced. We join them, twiring and swinging around the make shift dance floor.
Grilled pineapple, blackened shrimp and sausage comprise our meal as we discuss the future and the things that await us when we return home tomorrow. It's one of those intensly serious conversations that is continuously broken up by ... where we are.
We stroll down the sleepy street of the village which are dark with families sitting inside of their tiny shacks with lights on as they do whatever they do at night. Returning to Barefoot we retrieve Richie who brings his friend along for our ride back to Robert's Grove.
It is only 9:45 but everything is quiet. We return to our room. The Iguana remains in the tree. Feeling that we owe him something, we give it to him.
This morning ... he's waiting for more.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Joy
My Face Book locator informs me that my status update was written near Woodbridge, VA which is funny because I'm actually in a tiny village in Belize. The miracles of technology! I have no idea where Woodbridge is but am fairly certain that it's not beside the ocean. (OK, I goggled it and it is near a bay so perhaps it was the currents that carried my status update from the Caribbean Sea to near Woodbrige.
God works in mysterious ways.
The sun and the clouds are playing tag this morning. Bright sunshine floods the sea only to be tagged by shades of clouds. Then the sun slaps back and its sunshine again, like two little kids laughing and playing. Rain falls off in the distance but not on me. It is out there and I see it as the storm that I've lived through but am no longer inside. I made it through.
The past week has been full of celebration and full of well wishers. Photographs and films clearly capture the happiness and joy that a full moon cast down upon us. Well wishers from around the world chimmed in with thumbs up images or messages of affirmation. Joy is more so when it is shared and it is obvious in the images. That is the sun shine of my now.
The storm is sweeping over the Atolls in the distance, a long line of purple with darker lines shoot water below on the trees swimming in the sea. I have no idea how long I've been staring at it when my mind comes back to the computer screen. That storm is a symbolic visualization of the past several years.
It's also interesting to take notice of those who used to be part of my life but aren't anymore. If they took notice of the changes that I've undergone or give a Tinker's Damn that I'm alright now, they no longer care enough to say so. Perhaps they're all in the middle of their own storms and their lives have been blown to far away places like Woodville or Hell. They're just doing their best to get by just like I did. I'll say a prayer for them and get on with this new joy that fills me now.
It is funny though how once you've survived bad times, a cautiousness grows inside making you supicious of the good happening in your life. We tell ourselves, this is too good to be true ... so it's not.
I believe that all we have is this moment.
The past are memories and stories, dreams and bones, scars and wonderment.
The future is our box of hopes doused in the realities of circumstance, determinations and faith.
What is have is now ... and apparently I am not where I'm supposed to be according to the beliefs of a lot of people, or according to technology indicators, but I am where my joy is.
God works in mysterious ways.
The sun and the clouds are playing tag this morning. Bright sunshine floods the sea only to be tagged by shades of clouds. Then the sun slaps back and its sunshine again, like two little kids laughing and playing. Rain falls off in the distance but not on me. It is out there and I see it as the storm that I've lived through but am no longer inside. I made it through.
The past week has been full of celebration and full of well wishers. Photographs and films clearly capture the happiness and joy that a full moon cast down upon us. Well wishers from around the world chimmed in with thumbs up images or messages of affirmation. Joy is more so when it is shared and it is obvious in the images. That is the sun shine of my now.
The storm is sweeping over the Atolls in the distance, a long line of purple with darker lines shoot water below on the trees swimming in the sea. I have no idea how long I've been staring at it when my mind comes back to the computer screen. That storm is a symbolic visualization of the past several years.
It's also interesting to take notice of those who used to be part of my life but aren't anymore. If they took notice of the changes that I've undergone or give a Tinker's Damn that I'm alright now, they no longer care enough to say so. Perhaps they're all in the middle of their own storms and their lives have been blown to far away places like Woodville or Hell. They're just doing their best to get by just like I did. I'll say a prayer for them and get on with this new joy that fills me now.
It is funny though how once you've survived bad times, a cautiousness grows inside making you supicious of the good happening in your life. We tell ourselves, this is too good to be true ... so it's not.
I believe that all we have is this moment.
The past are memories and stories, dreams and bones, scars and wonderment.
The future is our box of hopes doused in the realities of circumstance, determinations and faith.
What is have is now ... and apparently I am not where I'm supposed to be according to the beliefs of a lot of people, or according to technology indicators, but I am where my joy is.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Escape
Placencia, Belize is an old fishing village that boast of having the world's tinest road. It is the width of a small sidewalk and, sure enough, it runs from one end of the mostly residential village. Built to accomodate fishermen bringing in their hawls in baskets on wheels, the road is now a reminder of the past. A proper two lane road is near by lined with restaurants, Dive-shops and grocery stores. They are more Americanized than the quaint alternatives on the tiny street.
Sarah and I made our way down one and up the other. After an excellent lunch at Barefoot's we met a woman who'd arrived eighteen years ago for a two-week vacation.
"I fell in love and never left," she explained.
The art studio she runs is the front room of her house. The house was once on stilts but a hurrican knocked it off of them. So they propped it back up and have lived happiily ever after.
As we made our way, it was hard not to notice the number of people who have expatriated to this tiny place. They are easy to spot, giving us chipper "Hello's" and "Good Morning's."
I've always liked the idea of expatriating ... escaping fom the sometimes harst realities of my life to ... someplace else ... something else ... to become someone else!
I never did though. There were all of those responsibilities of family and work. So as time went on and I reached a place where I could, I took longer and more exotic vacations ... temporatily escaping from my life.
It recently dawned us though that for years we figured out emergency escapes from the relaities of our lives. Staying at work late because we didn't want to go home or calling in sick to stay at home because we cannot bear our work ... nightly runs to Wall-Mart or the grocery store means that we can get away from the spouse we're scared of leaving ... constant church meetings accomplish the same goal.
I'm struck that I have now accomplished the goals of expatriating without having never really done it. I am someplace else, doing something else, and have become someone else.
Today I am celebrating these things with Sarah in Belize.
Next week we will be doing it at home.
Sarah and I made our way down one and up the other. After an excellent lunch at Barefoot's we met a woman who'd arrived eighteen years ago for a two-week vacation.
"I fell in love and never left," she explained.
The art studio she runs is the front room of her house. The house was once on stilts but a hurrican knocked it off of them. So they propped it back up and have lived happiily ever after.
As we made our way, it was hard not to notice the number of people who have expatriated to this tiny place. They are easy to spot, giving us chipper "Hello's" and "Good Morning's."
I've always liked the idea of expatriating ... escaping fom the sometimes harst realities of my life to ... someplace else ... something else ... to become someone else!
I never did though. There were all of those responsibilities of family and work. So as time went on and I reached a place where I could, I took longer and more exotic vacations ... temporatily escaping from my life.
It recently dawned us though that for years we figured out emergency escapes from the relaities of our lives. Staying at work late because we didn't want to go home or calling in sick to stay at home because we cannot bear our work ... nightly runs to Wall-Mart or the grocery store means that we can get away from the spouse we're scared of leaving ... constant church meetings accomplish the same goal.
I'm struck that I have now accomplished the goals of expatriating without having never really done it. I am someplace else, doing something else, and have become someone else.
Today I am celebrating these things with Sarah in Belize.
Next week we will be doing it at home.
Monday, March 12, 2012
I Am Risen
A thin blanket of clouds, sheet like, is spread across the ocean which is restless and kicking. The breeze is blowing so the long leaf Palm Trees dance on the shore. Lying in bed, I watch the sky turn from dark gray to a litghter shade of pale. Jumping up, I close the curtains so Sarah can sleep. A quick shower later I grab a cup of coffee and sit on the veranda to watch the sun rise.
It wasn't a pure ball of fire bubbling out of the sea because of the thin blanket of clouds. Yellow rays burst heavenly and then the sun peaks out from the sheets. It rises as quickly as I did. Then the strangest thing happens ... the sheet of clouds disappear, evaporating into nothingness. A brilliant yellow ball stands alone in the sky.
The sea calms down. Palm Tress stop dancing and wave instead welcoming the new day.
Surveying the beach, I am the lone witness to this birth.
Recognizing this, the sun throws a handful of diamonds on the ocean creating a trail that leads directly to me. I am bathed in holiness.
Over the past few years, I lived through a great deal of hurt. There were days when I didn't think I could take anymore. People would try to encourage me. "The Lord will never give you more than you can bear," some said in a gross misquoting of Scripture. The truth is though I've seen many people crumble and die over what the Lord gave them to bear.
I'm lucky though. I got through it with the kindness of an incredible, tiny community of believers ... they believed in me when I wasn't believing in myself. It was a much different me that ended up getting through.
The relentless competitor was tempered. Desires of fame and fortune no longer burned ..they'd been satisfied and I learned the cost. Money still matters but so much less than ... watching the sun rise, praying on a sad little holy dock, discovering worship again in a Bar or learning to gracefully accept the love and kindness of others.
"I was once dead but now I live," John says Jesus said in Revelation. I know the feeling!
Life is brand new. Happy and in love, I celebrate everything around me, though I remember the dark times and those who created them. I do not dwell on these things but they remain a part of who I am. I believe one day they will be resolved.
When Jesus came back from the dead, I can't help but believe he was miffed at some. Sure, it was love he came to demonstrate but look at what happened over the long hawl. Judas, the friend who betrayed him did himself in as all betrayers ultimately do. Rome crumbled. The Empire that ruled the world and provided political authorization of his crucifixion is now ancient ruins. The Jewish faith that requested his death is more fractured than ever still wandering in the wilderness searching for a home.
In the end it seems, justice was served. The love of God was demonstrated at the same time. I think they are intertwined. I wonder about these things at the individual level ... in my life.
Clouds now bow below the risen sun. Peering in I see that Sarah is still sleeping. A parrot squaks. The coffee is cold. A new day has begun. I am risen.
It wasn't a pure ball of fire bubbling out of the sea because of the thin blanket of clouds. Yellow rays burst heavenly and then the sun peaks out from the sheets. It rises as quickly as I did. Then the strangest thing happens ... the sheet of clouds disappear, evaporating into nothingness. A brilliant yellow ball stands alone in the sky.
The sea calms down. Palm Tress stop dancing and wave instead welcoming the new day.
Surveying the beach, I am the lone witness to this birth.
Recognizing this, the sun throws a handful of diamonds on the ocean creating a trail that leads directly to me. I am bathed in holiness.
Over the past few years, I lived through a great deal of hurt. There were days when I didn't think I could take anymore. People would try to encourage me. "The Lord will never give you more than you can bear," some said in a gross misquoting of Scripture. The truth is though I've seen many people crumble and die over what the Lord gave them to bear.
I'm lucky though. I got through it with the kindness of an incredible, tiny community of believers ... they believed in me when I wasn't believing in myself. It was a much different me that ended up getting through.
The relentless competitor was tempered. Desires of fame and fortune no longer burned ..they'd been satisfied and I learned the cost. Money still matters but so much less than ... watching the sun rise, praying on a sad little holy dock, discovering worship again in a Bar or learning to gracefully accept the love and kindness of others.
"I was once dead but now I live," John says Jesus said in Revelation. I know the feeling!
Life is brand new. Happy and in love, I celebrate everything around me, though I remember the dark times and those who created them. I do not dwell on these things but they remain a part of who I am. I believe one day they will be resolved.
When Jesus came back from the dead, I can't help but believe he was miffed at some. Sure, it was love he came to demonstrate but look at what happened over the long hawl. Judas, the friend who betrayed him did himself in as all betrayers ultimately do. Rome crumbled. The Empire that ruled the world and provided political authorization of his crucifixion is now ancient ruins. The Jewish faith that requested his death is more fractured than ever still wandering in the wilderness searching for a home.
In the end it seems, justice was served. The love of God was demonstrated at the same time. I think they are intertwined. I wonder about these things at the individual level ... in my life.
Clouds now bow below the risen sun. Peering in I see that Sarah is still sleeping. A parrot squaks. The coffee is cold. A new day has begun. I am risen.
Friday, March 9, 2012
A Fantabulous Night for a Moon Dance
I've been to a lot of weddings.
I mean a really lot of them ... performing them, attending them, being in them ... a lot of weddings!
Most are in a church, are pretty standard, play roughly the same music and are very serious affairs.
Then three was last night ... under a full moon that popped over the ocean right on cue.
It was a clear warm night, bare feet in the sand, a carnival of friends, laughter and dancing, drinking and live music, and kissing and dancing.
It was a fantabulous night for a Moon Dance ... and boy did we!
The New Brady Bunch came together.
Sins were made and forgiven at the same time!
Bubbles were blown ... rings were given and taken ... children took over the pool ...
The VooDo Band played Lttle Wing!
Johnny O gave me away and got wasted ... Samuel Adams looked like Jesus ... Dedra looked like Satan ... others looked this way or that ... Bonnie Gaster finally got to be the flower girl.
Yeah, I been to a lot of weddings, but none as fantabulous as last night.
To Jenny Orr and the gang at Marlin Monroes, thank you.
To the entire carnival of friends too.
To the kids and the electronic hugs and the prayers given our way, thank you too.
I have to go now and move on to the next lines in that song ... a wonderful night for romance under the stars up above.
I mean a really lot of them ... performing them, attending them, being in them ... a lot of weddings!
Most are in a church, are pretty standard, play roughly the same music and are very serious affairs.
Then three was last night ... under a full moon that popped over the ocean right on cue.
It was a clear warm night, bare feet in the sand, a carnival of friends, laughter and dancing, drinking and live music, and kissing and dancing.
It was a fantabulous night for a Moon Dance ... and boy did we!
The New Brady Bunch came together.
Sins were made and forgiven at the same time!
Bubbles were blown ... rings were given and taken ... children took over the pool ...
The VooDo Band played Lttle Wing!
Johnny O gave me away and got wasted ... Samuel Adams looked like Jesus ... Dedra looked like Satan ... others looked this way or that ... Bonnie Gaster finally got to be the flower girl.
Yeah, I been to a lot of weddings, but none as fantabulous as last night.
To Jenny Orr and the gang at Marlin Monroes, thank you.
To the entire carnival of friends too.
To the kids and the electronic hugs and the prayers given our way, thank you too.
I have to go now and move on to the next lines in that song ... a wonderful night for romance under the stars up above.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
A Special Full Moon Party
The plan was to not have much of a plan. We were just going to grab the kids and head to the Full Moon Party at Marlin Monroe's, have a few drinks, listen to the VooDo Band, and stumble out on the beach under the moon. Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, would say a few words, promises would be made and sealed with a kiss. Then we'd go back to the party.
That was the plan anway.
Then the Carnival of Friends got involved.
A party was thrown for Sarah last night and by the time she got home she was equipped with everything necessary to have a successful career as a prostitute.
The pictures have now made their way to Face Book and provides ample evidence that a good time was had by all. One of the traits that has emerged whenever the Carnival of Friends gather together is that everyone brings a camera. This is because everyone is trying to incriminate everyone else. We all have a proponderance of proof documenting the guilty.
The other thing that's happened is no matter what you do ... or what you don't do ... it makes someone mad. In retrospect I should have taken out billboards inviting the entire universe to the Full Moon Party tonight. Our plan was just to keep it simple and quiet.
Then Conner found out.
Conner is my dear friend that I hang out with in St. Martin. We've had many excellent adventures including the complete kidnapping of the Manager's Wine and Cheese party. This did not go over well with the Manager's who stripped us of our wine glasses. Anyway, Conner and Hania are coming and they're like pouring gasoline on a fire. Tybee Island is already crazy and the Carnival of friends are nuts ... adding Conner to this is ... I shutter to think of the things that may happen.
Then Chuck Courtenay and Vickie are coming too. Suddenly there arte three bands and numerous clergy to handle anything that is necessary. Holiness will blanket everything and forgiveness will be readily available to all.
Oh well, what does one do?
Personally I plan to stick as close as possible to the orginal plan ... which was not to have much of a plan ... though I do have my doubts given the configeration of this particular congregation.
So let this celebration of life begin. We're starting with Scripture readings from the Song of Solomon and going downhill from there.
And before it's all said and done I can't help but think that on this full moon night, there will be blue ones too ... probably an entire constellations of them.
That was the plan anway.
Then the Carnival of Friends got involved.
A party was thrown for Sarah last night and by the time she got home she was equipped with everything necessary to have a successful career as a prostitute.
The pictures have now made their way to Face Book and provides ample evidence that a good time was had by all. One of the traits that has emerged whenever the Carnival of Friends gather together is that everyone brings a camera. This is because everyone is trying to incriminate everyone else. We all have a proponderance of proof documenting the guilty.
The other thing that's happened is no matter what you do ... or what you don't do ... it makes someone mad. In retrospect I should have taken out billboards inviting the entire universe to the Full Moon Party tonight. Our plan was just to keep it simple and quiet.
Then Conner found out.
Conner is my dear friend that I hang out with in St. Martin. We've had many excellent adventures including the complete kidnapping of the Manager's Wine and Cheese party. This did not go over well with the Manager's who stripped us of our wine glasses. Anyway, Conner and Hania are coming and they're like pouring gasoline on a fire. Tybee Island is already crazy and the Carnival of friends are nuts ... adding Conner to this is ... I shutter to think of the things that may happen.
Then Chuck Courtenay and Vickie are coming too. Suddenly there arte three bands and numerous clergy to handle anything that is necessary. Holiness will blanket everything and forgiveness will be readily available to all.
Oh well, what does one do?
Personally I plan to stick as close as possible to the orginal plan ... which was not to have much of a plan ... though I do have my doubts given the configeration of this particular congregation.
So let this celebration of life begin. We're starting with Scripture readings from the Song of Solomon and going downhill from there.
And before it's all said and done I can't help but think that on this full moon night, there will be blue ones too ... probably an entire constellations of them.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
ALmost Perfect
Peering over the cliff that is eighty feet from the aqua blue water below, I pause.
I'm at Rick's Cafe in Jamaica and the locals are pissing me off. They're climbing up a tree on the top of the cliff and diving off. So they are about eight feet higher than me. I turn around looking at them. They're asking for tips. I'm giving them competition.
A tall thin black Rastafarian leaps from the tree, twirling around in front of me laughing in my face as he falls. Then he cannon balls into the water.
People applaud.
Money is placed in a jar.
They're standing there at Rick's which is a bar on a cliff. It's a tourist trap and the drinks all have umbrellas in them. The vast majority are wearing Birkenstock's. Several dozen also have on black socks. Strange people indeed. Tour buses wait to take them to the next stop.
The tall thin black Rastafarian pops out of the water looking up at me ... still laughing.
"Son of a Bitch," I say out loud.
Then I spread my arms like an eagle and jump off of an eighty foot cliff into the cove below. It is a swan dive. My chest is pointing towards the sun. My legs make their way over my head. I become a pinpoint missile coming straight into the cove that the tall think black Rastafarian is swimming out of. He watches me approach. I feel perfect and hit the water beside him with the slightest of splashes.
Had this been the Olympics, I would probably have received a score of 99.
Yeah ... it was that 1% ... the slightest of splashes.
My legs hurt for a week.
But thin black Rastafarian dude never knew.
When I surfaced, he gave me a high-five yelling "RESPECT MON! RESPECT!".
I slapped his hand and said, "Respect."
We made our way up the cliff laughing together.
There are costs in life. Everything has a cost. I'd pulled off the dive earning his respect but the back of my legs hurt like hell. At the bar, someone handed me a beer and lots of people slapped me on the back. The celebration of almost perfect began.
That's the lesson right? Nothing is perfect ... though some things appear to be. And when they're not, we act like they are ... though deep down inside of our selves ... we know better.
I've come to accept that in life. It's mostly perfect. Those things that aren't drive me nuts and keep me up at night. Why do I focus on these things?
It's mostly perfect.
Tomorrow is a big day. I'm hitting the water again having already done this perfect swan dive off of a cliff. Diving into beauty.
I've tried before and failed.
But I know with everything in me ... that this time ... it's perfect.
I'm at Rick's Cafe in Jamaica and the locals are pissing me off. They're climbing up a tree on the top of the cliff and diving off. So they are about eight feet higher than me. I turn around looking at them. They're asking for tips. I'm giving them competition.
A tall thin black Rastafarian leaps from the tree, twirling around in front of me laughing in my face as he falls. Then he cannon balls into the water.
People applaud.
Money is placed in a jar.
They're standing there at Rick's which is a bar on a cliff. It's a tourist trap and the drinks all have umbrellas in them. The vast majority are wearing Birkenstock's. Several dozen also have on black socks. Strange people indeed. Tour buses wait to take them to the next stop.
The tall thin black Rastafarian pops out of the water looking up at me ... still laughing.
"Son of a Bitch," I say out loud.
Then I spread my arms like an eagle and jump off of an eighty foot cliff into the cove below. It is a swan dive. My chest is pointing towards the sun. My legs make their way over my head. I become a pinpoint missile coming straight into the cove that the tall think black Rastafarian is swimming out of. He watches me approach. I feel perfect and hit the water beside him with the slightest of splashes.
Had this been the Olympics, I would probably have received a score of 99.
Yeah ... it was that 1% ... the slightest of splashes.
My legs hurt for a week.
But thin black Rastafarian dude never knew.
When I surfaced, he gave me a high-five yelling "RESPECT MON! RESPECT!".
I slapped his hand and said, "Respect."
We made our way up the cliff laughing together.
There are costs in life. Everything has a cost. I'd pulled off the dive earning his respect but the back of my legs hurt like hell. At the bar, someone handed me a beer and lots of people slapped me on the back. The celebration of almost perfect began.
That's the lesson right? Nothing is perfect ... though some things appear to be. And when they're not, we act like they are ... though deep down inside of our selves ... we know better.
I've come to accept that in life. It's mostly perfect. Those things that aren't drive me nuts and keep me up at night. Why do I focus on these things?
It's mostly perfect.
Tomorrow is a big day. I'm hitting the water again having already done this perfect swan dive off of a cliff. Diving into beauty.
I've tried before and failed.
But I know with everything in me ... that this time ... it's perfect.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Experience Matters
Cinnamon rolls are baking casting an aroma throughout the kitchen.
It mixes with the smell of brewing coffee.
Staring out the sliding glass doors I see that the wind has not let up as it blows through Fran's thousand shades of green. The grass skirt on the Palm Tree with the oyster face and coconut bra blows giving the appearance that she's dancing as the sun rises.
Girls are asleep everywhere. Two beds and two couches are currently occupied. Goddess is confused as she meanders from room to room attempting to keep watch over everyone at once.
I'm wondering when was the last time that I cooked Cinnamon rolls. It had to have been for Chelsea and that would have been decades ago.
I remember enough to save the icing because someone is going to lick the container clean.
"Damn," I think to myself. "I'm domesticated."
Firing up Pandora, I listen to Amie Mann and crack it up as a way of waking everyone up.
The kitchen counter looks as though a food delivery truck crashed into it. A&W Root beer, Powdered donuts, popcorn, peperoni and cheese crackers are everywhere.
The living room appears to have been hit by a National Linen Service truck. Blankets, sheets and stuffed animals are littered throughout. Random sneakers and slippers lay on the floor. Book bags and plastic sacks are piled up on the table.
They begin to stir.
Normally when I leave for the Breakfast Club, Goddess is snoring beside the bed. Now she looks traumatized.
Suddenly there is a mad dash for the Cinnamon Rolls. Apparently one has more icing than the others.
"This is weird," I say out loud.
A Cinnamon roll drops to the floor and a scream follows.
Goddess makes a mad dash for it but the three-second rule applies. Dejected, my dog goes outside.
I fix a screwdriver.
"I have the experience for this," I say to myself. "I survived raising Kristen for God's sake!"
Then Sarah wanders in, hair askew, wearing one of my shirts, eyes full of sleep ... and she kisses me.
"And on the seventh day ... God said it was good."
This is going to be alright.
It mixes with the smell of brewing coffee.
Staring out the sliding glass doors I see that the wind has not let up as it blows through Fran's thousand shades of green. The grass skirt on the Palm Tree with the oyster face and coconut bra blows giving the appearance that she's dancing as the sun rises.
Girls are asleep everywhere. Two beds and two couches are currently occupied. Goddess is confused as she meanders from room to room attempting to keep watch over everyone at once.
I'm wondering when was the last time that I cooked Cinnamon rolls. It had to have been for Chelsea and that would have been decades ago.
I remember enough to save the icing because someone is going to lick the container clean.
"Damn," I think to myself. "I'm domesticated."
Firing up Pandora, I listen to Amie Mann and crack it up as a way of waking everyone up.
The kitchen counter looks as though a food delivery truck crashed into it. A&W Root beer, Powdered donuts, popcorn, peperoni and cheese crackers are everywhere.
The living room appears to have been hit by a National Linen Service truck. Blankets, sheets and stuffed animals are littered throughout. Random sneakers and slippers lay on the floor. Book bags and plastic sacks are piled up on the table.
They begin to stir.
Normally when I leave for the Breakfast Club, Goddess is snoring beside the bed. Now she looks traumatized.
Suddenly there is a mad dash for the Cinnamon Rolls. Apparently one has more icing than the others.
"This is weird," I say out loud.
A Cinnamon roll drops to the floor and a scream follows.
Goddess makes a mad dash for it but the three-second rule applies. Dejected, my dog goes outside.
I fix a screwdriver.
"I have the experience for this," I say to myself. "I survived raising Kristen for God's sake!"
Then Sarah wanders in, hair askew, wearing one of my shirts, eyes full of sleep ... and she kisses me.
"And on the seventh day ... God said it was good."
This is going to be alright.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Where the River Meets the Sea
God dips Her hands in buckets of brilliant reds, pinks and yellows throwing them across the sky as though finger painting first thing in the morning. Colors all mushed together above a full high tide with only the tips of marsh grass seen. God is getting up earlier these days because the sun is already rising when just last week it was still dark at this time of morning.
Goddess nudges her head beside mine laying her paw on my hand which is on the gear shift. There are no other cars on the Tybee road as we make our way home. Sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, we sail pass Fort Pulaski. The Cockspur Lighthouse with no light in it, welcomes us to the island.
Many years ago my dear friend Bruce and I climbed on top of it to yell at cars making their way over the Lazaratto Bridge "I'm DOING THIS AND YOU"RE NOT!"
We'd been on a two case boat ride. We were in the boat just long enough to drink twenty four beers. Kyle was with us. Every time I see Cockspur the memory of that day washes over me. I miss him.
On top of the bridge, I spy Hilton Head Island with its golf courses, plantations and enough traffic to sink the island. Turtle Island is there too along with Dafuski. The lights of Savannah are behind us. What captures my attention every single time I cross the bridge is where the mouth of the Savannah River meets the Sea. Fresh water mixes with salt water and holiness is born.
Goddess gives me a kiss, licking my cheek before jumping in the passenger seat. I roll the window down and she sticks her head out, smelling the salt, sand and sea. She knows that home is around the corner and is excited. Her tail wags without ceasing ... hitting me in the face as I drive down Butler Avenue.
I don't mind.
I'm lost in thought and full of emotions.
My life is where the river meets the sea ... where fresh water mixes with salt water ... sand is a lifestyle commitment and suntan lotion is perfume ... sub-tropical temperatures are exotic displays of green ... and it's always 5 O'Clock on Tybee.
Everything that has happened so far in my life has passed away.
Now there is just ... next.
"If this many people are against us," I told Sarah, "then we must really be on to something."
In four days we will be married underneath a full moon with people who love us and lots more who could care less. We'll be surrounded by little girls in dresses and bare feet in the sand. Two-thirds of my children will be there. Parents have mixed opinions about it. There will be religion, music, dances and drinks all in a gumbo of joy.
There will also be the re-opened scars from those who sit in judgement, missing members of the congregation, and organized religion will be brought in Samuel Adams guitar case ... frozen soup that has freezer burn. Things that still torch our souls.
The car rolls to a stop in the Drive way. Goddess excitedly jumps over me to get out. Draining the last of the coffee, I unlock the door and let her inside. Diving back behind the wheel, I drive the short distance to The Breakfast Club for more coffee with friends I love.
Staring out of the window at the flags whipping above the Ocean Plaza, the wind is blowing out to sea ... where the water is full of salt and there is no more fresh ... where the possibilities are endless ... and as much is unknown as known ... the future is out there somewhere and the chains of the past are behind me ...
I've only got so much life left.
It's been great so far but I believe in better.
Forever, I've lived where the River meets the Sea.
Now ... I'm sailing into my future.
Goddess nudges her head beside mine laying her paw on my hand which is on the gear shift. There are no other cars on the Tybee road as we make our way home. Sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, we sail pass Fort Pulaski. The Cockspur Lighthouse with no light in it, welcomes us to the island.
Many years ago my dear friend Bruce and I climbed on top of it to yell at cars making their way over the Lazaratto Bridge "I'm DOING THIS AND YOU"RE NOT!"
We'd been on a two case boat ride. We were in the boat just long enough to drink twenty four beers. Kyle was with us. Every time I see Cockspur the memory of that day washes over me. I miss him.
On top of the bridge, I spy Hilton Head Island with its golf courses, plantations and enough traffic to sink the island. Turtle Island is there too along with Dafuski. The lights of Savannah are behind us. What captures my attention every single time I cross the bridge is where the mouth of the Savannah River meets the Sea. Fresh water mixes with salt water and holiness is born.
Goddess gives me a kiss, licking my cheek before jumping in the passenger seat. I roll the window down and she sticks her head out, smelling the salt, sand and sea. She knows that home is around the corner and is excited. Her tail wags without ceasing ... hitting me in the face as I drive down Butler Avenue.
I don't mind.
I'm lost in thought and full of emotions.
My life is where the river meets the sea ... where fresh water mixes with salt water ... sand is a lifestyle commitment and suntan lotion is perfume ... sub-tropical temperatures are exotic displays of green ... and it's always 5 O'Clock on Tybee.
Everything that has happened so far in my life has passed away.
Now there is just ... next.
"If this many people are against us," I told Sarah, "then we must really be on to something."
In four days we will be married underneath a full moon with people who love us and lots more who could care less. We'll be surrounded by little girls in dresses and bare feet in the sand. Two-thirds of my children will be there. Parents have mixed opinions about it. There will be religion, music, dances and drinks all in a gumbo of joy.
There will also be the re-opened scars from those who sit in judgement, missing members of the congregation, and organized religion will be brought in Samuel Adams guitar case ... frozen soup that has freezer burn. Things that still torch our souls.
The car rolls to a stop in the Drive way. Goddess excitedly jumps over me to get out. Draining the last of the coffee, I unlock the door and let her inside. Diving back behind the wheel, I drive the short distance to The Breakfast Club for more coffee with friends I love.
Staring out of the window at the flags whipping above the Ocean Plaza, the wind is blowing out to sea ... where the water is full of salt and there is no more fresh ... where the possibilities are endless ... and as much is unknown as known ... the future is out there somewhere and the chains of the past are behind me ...
I've only got so much life left.
It's been great so far but I believe in better.
Forever, I've lived where the River meets the Sea.
Now ... I'm sailing into my future.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Freedom (from a boat)
"Just look like you have Dementia," I explained. "It'll be easy for you.
Dedra looked like she would cry.
"Listen," I pressed, "if you act like you know what you're doing everyone will think you know what you're doing."
"Huh," she signed.
"Follow us," Sarah said.
"This isn't going to work," Dedra protested.
Sarah grabbed one arm and I grabbed the other and pulled her along.
"I'm not supposed to leave the boat until 9:45," she said.
It was ten-minutes-to-eight. Sarah and I had carried our luggage on. It was a four day cruise and the weather was eighty degrees. How many clothes do you need?
If you're Dedra ... or Johnny O ... you pack enough to dress all of southern Africa.
Johnny O had four costume changes every day (and everything was pressed ...even his underwear! Who presses their underwear?)
Dedra was afraid to open her suitcase because it looked as though it would explode at any moment anyway ... so she mostly watched Horton Hears a Who on her stateroom television set.
(Though we did teach her how to drink, gamble, pick up married Irish guys and get a tattoo!)
Now it was time to disembark and Sarah and I were in the very first wave to be set free from Adult-Camp-at-Sea. I'm not certain why. Our cabin was in bottom of the boat. We could look out of our porthole and see fish.
Cheryl and Jodee were on top and were released next. Then came Johnny O and Judy O. Dedra was the last to be go.
"To hell with that," I told her.
So Dedra came down looking like Eeyore from Winnie the Poo saying, "This will never work. I'm not supposed to leave until 9:45."
"Right," Sarah and I said at the same time as we pulled her along.
At checkpoint number one, Sarah went first explaining, "She's with us. She has Dementia."
"Just give me her card," the bored woman said as she checked people off the boat.
On the gangplank, Dedra was ecstatic.
At customs, Sarah and I breezed right through but Dedra was detained. Her big ass suitcase was on another side of the room sitting on two tables by itself. The legs on both tables were buckling.
"You can't come this way," the customs agent said, holding Dedra back. "Go back out the door you came in and go in the one beside it and get your back."
Dedra looked like she had Dementia.
She always overacts.
So Sarah and I cleared customs and Dedra went backwards. Outside, we waited.
And waited ...
and waited ...
Then Dedra came out dragging her big ass bag.
She started crying. "You waited!" she exclaimed.
"Stop acting," I ordered. "You're off the boat."
Tear streamed down her face.
"I don't think she's acting," Sarah said.
It took all three of us to get her suitcase in the back of the van. Then it took another ten minutes to get the front wheels back down on the pavement.
Dedra cried the whole time.
Sarah and I looked at each other with concern.
"Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty! I'm free at last!"
Dedra had suddenly discovered the Civil Rights movement.
The ride home was uneventful.
"You do know," I said at one point.
"That you told me so?"
"Yep."
"Yep," she sighed.
Dedra looked like she would cry.
"Listen," I pressed, "if you act like you know what you're doing everyone will think you know what you're doing."
"Huh," she signed.
"Follow us," Sarah said.
"This isn't going to work," Dedra protested.
Sarah grabbed one arm and I grabbed the other and pulled her along.
"I'm not supposed to leave the boat until 9:45," she said.
It was ten-minutes-to-eight. Sarah and I had carried our luggage on. It was a four day cruise and the weather was eighty degrees. How many clothes do you need?
If you're Dedra ... or Johnny O ... you pack enough to dress all of southern Africa.
Johnny O had four costume changes every day (and everything was pressed ...even his underwear! Who presses their underwear?)
Dedra was afraid to open her suitcase because it looked as though it would explode at any moment anyway ... so she mostly watched Horton Hears a Who on her stateroom television set.
(Though we did teach her how to drink, gamble, pick up married Irish guys and get a tattoo!)
Now it was time to disembark and Sarah and I were in the very first wave to be set free from Adult-Camp-at-Sea. I'm not certain why. Our cabin was in bottom of the boat. We could look out of our porthole and see fish.
Cheryl and Jodee were on top and were released next. Then came Johnny O and Judy O. Dedra was the last to be go.
"To hell with that," I told her.
So Dedra came down looking like Eeyore from Winnie the Poo saying, "This will never work. I'm not supposed to leave until 9:45."
"Right," Sarah and I said at the same time as we pulled her along.
At checkpoint number one, Sarah went first explaining, "She's with us. She has Dementia."
"Just give me her card," the bored woman said as she checked people off the boat.
On the gangplank, Dedra was ecstatic.
At customs, Sarah and I breezed right through but Dedra was detained. Her big ass suitcase was on another side of the room sitting on two tables by itself. The legs on both tables were buckling.
"You can't come this way," the customs agent said, holding Dedra back. "Go back out the door you came in and go in the one beside it and get your back."
Dedra looked like she had Dementia.
She always overacts.
So Sarah and I cleared customs and Dedra went backwards. Outside, we waited.
And waited ...
and waited ...
Then Dedra came out dragging her big ass bag.
She started crying. "You waited!" she exclaimed.
"Stop acting," I ordered. "You're off the boat."
Tear streamed down her face.
"I don't think she's acting," Sarah said.
It took all three of us to get her suitcase in the back of the van. Then it took another ten minutes to get the front wheels back down on the pavement.
Dedra cried the whole time.
Sarah and I looked at each other with concern.
"Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty! I'm free at last!"
Dedra had suddenly discovered the Civil Rights movement.
The ride home was uneventful.
"You do know," I said at one point.
"That you told me so?"
"Yep."
"Yep," she sighed.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell
For more years that I've been alive than not ... I've read about myself.
For the better part of thirty years I was in newspapers, articles, books and on television. (I think that my favorite is this book called Spiritual Literacy in which stories of mine are quoted. A exasperated Rabbi called to protest that was nothing especially literate about my spirituality!)
At first it was a real ego trip. I remember going to the Seminary Library to look at "The Journal of Social Work and Christianity" to see my name in print for the first time. It was an article I'd written that I now no longer remember the title. It was cool seeing myself there and my ego tripped.
Anyway, there was a lot of it in the decades which followed. The vast majority was good. Some of it was bad. Over time I became immune to it ... just part of another day ... give a quote or a sound bite ... write another book or newsletter story.
Now newspapers and books as we've known them are dying. Replaced by cyberspace, instant gratification and discarding things with the click of a button.
Earlier this week, Sarah and I took boxes of books to the Library. Things I'd read forever ago where taking up space. It was interesting. The Library was full ... of people on the computers.
The book shelves were half empty with no one wandering up and down the aisle's.
Every day I sit with the lap top open and the entire world is at my disposal on a ten by fourteen screen. I read news from other countries, listen to old music and the newest stuff, converse with friends strewn to and fro on the face of the earth. I've got friends whom I've never actually met though we talk often. Requests come from everywhere.
I get instant messages, private ones, wall posts and ... the occasional request for an interview by a reporter. I tell them everything I have to say can be found on the web. "Just take whatever quotes you want from there," I explain.
They protest wanting to do things the old fashion way. I sat that I'll call them back though I never do ... though that time is quickly coming again.
Of course there are those messages that make me out to be this horrendous creature from hell. Just the other day I was described as "a predator of women, the architect of failed marriages, a man who cusses, drinks and is a generally bad influence on children."
I take issue with none of these things ... though the women I've been married to might ... my children certainly would as they my mightiest protectors ... lots of children love me, especially three little girls and if the author came to Bar Church they may be cut during the service for saying such things about me.
There's one person who flew over my house in a helicopter once and confessed, "If I had a bomb I would drop on him. I hate him" (Hi Francis!).
If she attended Bar Church I'm afraid that more than being cut with a knife would be involved.
The point being that I've done far more good than bad in my life ... though I certainly have scars and am as wounded as anyone else from the bad.
I'm not perfect, just forgiven as the old saying goes and I started by forgiving myself. God forgave me long before I forgave myself. I've done the best I know how to do. And there are a lot of people who appreciate that.
In the Library I ran into Dicky who used to be homeless but isn't anymore and we chatted as he ran his business from the public computer. At practice for Bar Church yesterday I was hugged and thanked for loving people though they don't feel especially lovely these days. A friend asked me about getting affordable dental care in Savannah and, say what you will, I'm the one who created it (though it's no longer mine). There are all of these messages that take more and more of my day, "Can I ...?" and I believe in customer service so I respond to each and every one.
And these reporters keep calling and messaging. I really don't want to do that right now but ... they are relentless and I've got great stories to tell!
I've had my share of ego tripping. It'll take you straight to hell. I left mine there.
I wake up every day and try to do a little better than I did yesterday. I try to be nice. If people ask me for stuff I try to help and get frustrated when I can't. I've given the best of me away only to have it handed back to me on a silver platter. I lived large and I've downsized significantly.
Last night we sat at Wyn and Sean's, eating spaghetti, watching the moon rise over the ocean, telling stories and being friends. We shared from the brokenness which really is the best place to start ... and not from pompousness ... which is where hell begins.
For the better part of thirty years I was in newspapers, articles, books and on television. (I think that my favorite is this book called Spiritual Literacy in which stories of mine are quoted. A exasperated Rabbi called to protest that was nothing especially literate about my spirituality!)
At first it was a real ego trip. I remember going to the Seminary Library to look at "The Journal of Social Work and Christianity" to see my name in print for the first time. It was an article I'd written that I now no longer remember the title. It was cool seeing myself there and my ego tripped.
Anyway, there was a lot of it in the decades which followed. The vast majority was good. Some of it was bad. Over time I became immune to it ... just part of another day ... give a quote or a sound bite ... write another book or newsletter story.
Now newspapers and books as we've known them are dying. Replaced by cyberspace, instant gratification and discarding things with the click of a button.
Earlier this week, Sarah and I took boxes of books to the Library. Things I'd read forever ago where taking up space. It was interesting. The Library was full ... of people on the computers.
The book shelves were half empty with no one wandering up and down the aisle's.
Every day I sit with the lap top open and the entire world is at my disposal on a ten by fourteen screen. I read news from other countries, listen to old music and the newest stuff, converse with friends strewn to and fro on the face of the earth. I've got friends whom I've never actually met though we talk often. Requests come from everywhere.
I get instant messages, private ones, wall posts and ... the occasional request for an interview by a reporter. I tell them everything I have to say can be found on the web. "Just take whatever quotes you want from there," I explain.
They protest wanting to do things the old fashion way. I sat that I'll call them back though I never do ... though that time is quickly coming again.
Of course there are those messages that make me out to be this horrendous creature from hell. Just the other day I was described as "a predator of women, the architect of failed marriages, a man who cusses, drinks and is a generally bad influence on children."
I take issue with none of these things ... though the women I've been married to might ... my children certainly would as they my mightiest protectors ... lots of children love me, especially three little girls and if the author came to Bar Church they may be cut during the service for saying such things about me.
There's one person who flew over my house in a helicopter once and confessed, "If I had a bomb I would drop on him. I hate him" (Hi Francis!).
If she attended Bar Church I'm afraid that more than being cut with a knife would be involved.
The point being that I've done far more good than bad in my life ... though I certainly have scars and am as wounded as anyone else from the bad.
I'm not perfect, just forgiven as the old saying goes and I started by forgiving myself. God forgave me long before I forgave myself. I've done the best I know how to do. And there are a lot of people who appreciate that.
In the Library I ran into Dicky who used to be homeless but isn't anymore and we chatted as he ran his business from the public computer. At practice for Bar Church yesterday I was hugged and thanked for loving people though they don't feel especially lovely these days. A friend asked me about getting affordable dental care in Savannah and, say what you will, I'm the one who created it (though it's no longer mine). There are all of these messages that take more and more of my day, "Can I ...?" and I believe in customer service so I respond to each and every one.
And these reporters keep calling and messaging. I really don't want to do that right now but ... they are relentless and I've got great stories to tell!
I've had my share of ego tripping. It'll take you straight to hell. I left mine there.
I wake up every day and try to do a little better than I did yesterday. I try to be nice. If people ask me for stuff I try to help and get frustrated when I can't. I've given the best of me away only to have it handed back to me on a silver platter. I lived large and I've downsized significantly.
Last night we sat at Wyn and Sean's, eating spaghetti, watching the moon rise over the ocean, telling stories and being friends. We shared from the brokenness which really is the best place to start ... and not from pompousness ... which is where hell begins.
Friday, March 2, 2012
I Love Fridays
Fridays are always best.
The week is over ... or almost over ... and everyone is looking ahead to whatever it is they look forward to ... let the good times begin.
The drudgery of Thursday is done.
Yesterday was quite the chore ... attorneys who admit what they represent is morally wrong but legally right ... elected officials who have columns in the newspaper, on Face Book, and Twitter posts that they never wright but pay others to so that it looks like them (Hey Eric and Buddy!) ... clergy who pour through books of sermons to come up with this Sundays ... Board members who care about their legacy more than the work ... I could go on and on.-
The world is a screwed up place.
(It took a lot of self-restrained to use the word "screwed").
Sometimes I sit and wonder why.
Lawyers are gunslingers of the past ... any gun for hire ... not giving a shit cause so long as they are paid. Elected officials are old fashion whores prostituting themselves for re-election ... clergy (Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island and I are two) get paid to do what they ask everybody else to do for free ... I could go on.
The point is ... last night Sarah and I sat out here with a fire on the Beloved Back Deck ... with Bar-B-Q ribs and chicken grilling ... corn in butter ... green beans for Dedra ... three little girls running around and i am struck by the fact that I've only mastered two little girls and not three ... I may not survive ... though Kristen and Chelsea have already introduced me to most everything that little girls have to throw at you.
So that is the world right?
Evil balancing itself with good. Most of us (though certainly not all) believe that evil is slightly more than fifty percent of our reality. The rest of us don't really believe attorneys, elected officials, clergy ... though the Samuel Adams Band and Bar Church are rocking ... evil may be more than 50% ... who knows? ... it is what it is.
I don't care.
It's Friday.
The weather is here ...
sitting naked on the back deck writing ...
I think that dancing is in my immediate future ...
I love Fridays!
The week is over ... or almost over ... and everyone is looking ahead to whatever it is they look forward to ... let the good times begin.
The drudgery of Thursday is done.
Yesterday was quite the chore ... attorneys who admit what they represent is morally wrong but legally right ... elected officials who have columns in the newspaper, on Face Book, and Twitter posts that they never wright but pay others to so that it looks like them (Hey Eric and Buddy!) ... clergy who pour through books of sermons to come up with this Sundays ... Board members who care about their legacy more than the work ... I could go on and on.-
The world is a screwed up place.
(It took a lot of self-restrained to use the word "screwed").
Sometimes I sit and wonder why.
Lawyers are gunslingers of the past ... any gun for hire ... not giving a shit cause so long as they are paid. Elected officials are old fashion whores prostituting themselves for re-election ... clergy (Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island and I are two) get paid to do what they ask everybody else to do for free ... I could go on.
The point is ... last night Sarah and I sat out here with a fire on the Beloved Back Deck ... with Bar-B-Q ribs and chicken grilling ... corn in butter ... green beans for Dedra ... three little girls running around and i am struck by the fact that I've only mastered two little girls and not three ... I may not survive ... though Kristen and Chelsea have already introduced me to most everything that little girls have to throw at you.
So that is the world right?
Evil balancing itself with good. Most of us (though certainly not all) believe that evil is slightly more than fifty percent of our reality. The rest of us don't really believe attorneys, elected officials, clergy ... though the Samuel Adams Band and Bar Church are rocking ... evil may be more than 50% ... who knows? ... it is what it is.
I don't care.
It's Friday.
The weather is here ...
sitting naked on the back deck writing ...
I think that dancing is in my immediate future ...
I love Fridays!
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Life's Most Amazing Journey
Brilliant blasts of sunshine bursts through Fran's thousand shades of green illuminating the Beloved Back Deck and giving the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt a halo. Goddess contently sits at my feet chewing on a raw hide. The yard is full of weeds and needs work. The Red-Tips need are overgrown and several plants need to be replaced. I'm sitting here taking inventory of what to keep, what to trim and what to get of ... and it reminds me of my life.
Sitting outside of a hospital emergency room in Richmond, Virgina my old friend Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one who went to Seminary with me) was trying to stay awake. He'd been up for 25 straight hours waiting on a patient to die so that he could oversee the donation of body parts that would keep others alive. He filled some of the time by writing me.
"I hear rumor that you are engaged, I could tell back in November that Sarah is the woman for you." He went on to describe a Hodge-podge of the future and the past. His aging parents need constant supervision and their days are numbered. Business is booming so he works more than he ever has. He and Kathy are returning to the scene of one of our greatest crimes ... when he threw over the wall of the Trappist Monastery where Thomas Merton used to live and I landed on two monks who had taken vows of silence only to cuss.
"I don't know if I can get Kathy to do it," he says of throwing her over the wall, "I may spend all of my time at the Makers Mark Distillery. Tell Sarah 'Hi.'"
On this brilliant last morning of February that occurs every four years, I read his message again and am lost in thought. Whenever Bill and I are together, things happen. We've been around the world more than once ... chased by Turkish whores in Prague, walked together on the railroad track out of Auschwitz in Poland because there was no other way to leave, and he got me busted in Cuba. I love the man.
I imagine him sitting outside of the Emergency Room, leaning in a chair, the back of his head against the wall, fighting off sleep so that he can comfort the dead and save the living at the same time.
As the day unfolds, it becomes this crazy series of exchanges ... both though cyber space and live ... good news and bad news ... love and something other than love. Old friends want me to return to acting like the way I used to act and chiding me not doing so. Newer friends finding themselves in a position where they have to choose ... continue being my friend could risk offending somebody. There are conversations with attorneys, birthday wishes to Lenora, thanks to Jenny Gentry for inspiration, invitations from Stacy and expectations from Roma. My son Jeremy and I have a long talk about nothing and everything. Sarah sits beside me wrestling with similar things.
It's all a Hodge-podge of past and my future.
Suddenly, it's night time and Sarah and I make our way to Fannie's-on-the-Beach for Essie's surprise birthday. We're joined by Cheryl and Wyn (an old friend and a new one). Essie is surprised and everyone has a good time. At one point, I'm half-way listening to Sarah and Wyn who are in deep conversation when Jenny O is kicking my foot.
I stand up and she hugs me.
"You ready for this?," she asks in dead seriousness.
And I swear it was four of the sweetest words ever uttered. Behind each word was love and concern for me, where I'm at and where I'm going.
Salt water leaked out of my eyes as I nodded yes.
"Good," she said. "We'll get some pink table clothes, the bands good, and a bunch of people who don't know you will join those who do and toast you and Sarah. It'll be great!"
We hugged again and she made her way off to run Fannies.
Staring at the brilliant sunshine dancing with Fran's thousand shades of green, I think about Thomas Merton, the Trappist Monk whose ghost Bill and I chased all those years ago. Merton was something! He wrote great books and pushed Catholicism to be more than it was. He did these things having taken a vow of silence and lived alone in a Hermitage. He died trying to unite Buddhist monks with Catholic ones. A lot of Catholics were happy about it.
When Bill threw me over the wall that day, we were determined to find his Hermitage. It didn't go as planned.
Nothing ever does.
But you know what? I have lots of love again. The friends I have now are good ones. The uncertainty about the future are deep but the celebrations of the present keep doubts at bay. Somehow I've managed to achieve knowing exactly what I'm doing without having a clue at the same time!
Yesterday was cloudy, windy and cold.
Today is sunshine, blue skies, a calm ocean for sailing away and a warm exclamation point to "a long, cold, lonely winter."
I have things to do this morning. People in Atlanta, New York and Savannah want stuff from me. Two different publishers want chapters and there is a third I need to call back. I think I'll give them the morning ... then work on my tan.
Oh yeah ... I'm doing a wedding at Fannie's this afternoon.
So much to do ... so little time.
I'm going to enjoy it while I got it.
Sitting outside of a hospital emergency room in Richmond, Virgina my old friend Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one who went to Seminary with me) was trying to stay awake. He'd been up for 25 straight hours waiting on a patient to die so that he could oversee the donation of body parts that would keep others alive. He filled some of the time by writing me.
"I hear rumor that you are engaged, I could tell back in November that Sarah is the woman for you." He went on to describe a Hodge-podge of the future and the past. His aging parents need constant supervision and their days are numbered. Business is booming so he works more than he ever has. He and Kathy are returning to the scene of one of our greatest crimes ... when he threw over the wall of the Trappist Monastery where Thomas Merton used to live and I landed on two monks who had taken vows of silence only to cuss.
"I don't know if I can get Kathy to do it," he says of throwing her over the wall, "I may spend all of my time at the Makers Mark Distillery. Tell Sarah 'Hi.'"
On this brilliant last morning of February that occurs every four years, I read his message again and am lost in thought. Whenever Bill and I are together, things happen. We've been around the world more than once ... chased by Turkish whores in Prague, walked together on the railroad track out of Auschwitz in Poland because there was no other way to leave, and he got me busted in Cuba. I love the man.
I imagine him sitting outside of the Emergency Room, leaning in a chair, the back of his head against the wall, fighting off sleep so that he can comfort the dead and save the living at the same time.
As the day unfolds, it becomes this crazy series of exchanges ... both though cyber space and live ... good news and bad news ... love and something other than love. Old friends want me to return to acting like the way I used to act and chiding me not doing so. Newer friends finding themselves in a position where they have to choose ... continue being my friend could risk offending somebody. There are conversations with attorneys, birthday wishes to Lenora, thanks to Jenny Gentry for inspiration, invitations from Stacy and expectations from Roma. My son Jeremy and I have a long talk about nothing and everything. Sarah sits beside me wrestling with similar things.
It's all a Hodge-podge of past and my future.
Suddenly, it's night time and Sarah and I make our way to Fannie's-on-the-Beach for Essie's surprise birthday. We're joined by Cheryl and Wyn (an old friend and a new one). Essie is surprised and everyone has a good time. At one point, I'm half-way listening to Sarah and Wyn who are in deep conversation when Jenny O is kicking my foot.
I stand up and she hugs me.
"You ready for this?," she asks in dead seriousness.
And I swear it was four of the sweetest words ever uttered. Behind each word was love and concern for me, where I'm at and where I'm going.
Salt water leaked out of my eyes as I nodded yes.
"Good," she said. "We'll get some pink table clothes, the bands good, and a bunch of people who don't know you will join those who do and toast you and Sarah. It'll be great!"
We hugged again and she made her way off to run Fannies.
Staring at the brilliant sunshine dancing with Fran's thousand shades of green, I think about Thomas Merton, the Trappist Monk whose ghost Bill and I chased all those years ago. Merton was something! He wrote great books and pushed Catholicism to be more than it was. He did these things having taken a vow of silence and lived alone in a Hermitage. He died trying to unite Buddhist monks with Catholic ones. A lot of Catholics were happy about it.
When Bill threw me over the wall that day, we were determined to find his Hermitage. It didn't go as planned.
Nothing ever does.
But you know what? I have lots of love again. The friends I have now are good ones. The uncertainty about the future are deep but the celebrations of the present keep doubts at bay. Somehow I've managed to achieve knowing exactly what I'm doing without having a clue at the same time!
Yesterday was cloudy, windy and cold.
Today is sunshine, blue skies, a calm ocean for sailing away and a warm exclamation point to "a long, cold, lonely winter."
I have things to do this morning. People in Atlanta, New York and Savannah want stuff from me. Two different publishers want chapters and there is a third I need to call back. I think I'll give them the morning ... then work on my tan.
Oh yeah ... I'm doing a wedding at Fannie's this afternoon.
So much to do ... so little time.
I'm going to enjoy it while I got it.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
So much to do ... so little time
Brilliant blasts of sunshine bursts through Fran's thousand shades of green illuminating the Beloved Back Deck and giving the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt a halo. Goddess contently sits at my feet chewing on a raw hide. The yard is full of weeds and needs work. The Red-Tips need are overgrown and several plants need to be replaced. I'm sitting here taking inventory of what to keep, what to trim and what to get of ... and it reminds me of my life.
Sitting outside of a hospital emergency room in Richmond, Virgina my old friend Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one who went to Seminary with me) was trying to stay awake. He'd been up for 25 straight hours waiting on a patient to die so that he could oversee the donation of body parts that would keep others alive. He filled some of the time by writing me.
"I hear rumor that you are engaged, I could tell back in November that Sarah is the woman for you." He went on to describe a Hodge-podge of the future and the past. His aging parents need constant supervision and their days are numbered. Business is booming so he works more than he ever has. He and Kathy are returning to the scene of one of our greatest crimes ... when he threw over the wall of the Trappist Monastery where Thomas Merton used to live and I landed on two monks who had taken vows of silence only to cuss.
"I don't know if I can get Kathy to do it," he says of throwing her over the wall, "I may spend all of my time at the Makers Mark Distillery. Tell Sarah 'Hi.'"
On this brilliant last morning of February that occurs every four years, I read his message again and am lost in thought. Whenever Bill and I are together, things happen. We've been around the world more than once ... chased by Turkish whores in Prague, walked together on the railroad track out of Auschwitz in Poland because there was no other way to leave, and he got me busted in Cuba. I love the man.
I imagine him sitting outside of the Emergency Room, leaning in a chair, the back of his head against the wall, fighting off sleep so that he can comfort the dead and save the living at the same time.
As the day unfolds, it becomes this crazy series of exchanges ... both though cyber space and live ... good news and bad news ... love and something other than love. Old friends want me to return to acting like the way I used to act and chiding me not doing so. Newer friends finding themselves in a position where they have to choose ... continue being my friend could risk offending somebody. There are conversations with attorneys, birthday wishes to Lenora, thanks to Jenny Gentry for inspiration, invitations from Stacy and expectations from Roma. My son Jeremy and I have a long talk about nothing and everything. Sarah sits beside me wrestling with similar things.
It's all a Hodge-podge of past and my future.
Suddenly, it's night time and Sarah and I make our way to Fannie's-on-the-Beach for Essie's surprise birthday. We're joined by Cheryl and Wyn (an old friend and a new one). Essie is surprised and everyone has a good time. At one point, I'm half-way listening to Sarah and Wyn who are in deep conversation when Jenny O is kicking my foot.
I stand up and she hugs me.
"You ready for this?," she asks in dead seriousness.
And I swear it was four of the sweetest words ever uttered. Behind each word was love and concern for me, where I'm at and where I'm going.
Salt water leaked out of my eyes as I nodded yes.
"Good," she said. "We'll get some pink table clothes, the bands good, and a bunch of people who don't know you will join those who do and toast you and Sarah. It'll be great!"
We hugged again and she made her way off to run Fannies.
Staring at the brilliant sunshine dancing with Fran's thousand shades of green, I think about Thomas Merton, the Trappist Monk whose ghost Bill and I chased all those years ago. Merton was something! He wrote great books and pushed Catholicism to be more than it was. He did these things having taken a vow of silence and lived alone in a Hermitage. He died trying to unite Buddhist monks with Catholic ones. A lot of Catholics were happy about it.
When Bill threw me over the wall that day, we were determined to find his Hermitage. It didn't go as planned.
Nothing ever does.
But you know what? I have lots of love again. The friends I have now are good ones. The uncertainty about the future are deep but the celebrations of the present keep doubts at bay. Somehow I've managed to achieve knowing exactly what I'm doing without having a clue at the same time!
Yesterday was cloudy, windy and cold.
Today is sunshine, blue skies, a calm ocean for sailing away and a warm exclamation point to "a long, cold, lonely winter."
I have things to do this morning. People in Atlanta, New York and Savannah want stuff from me. Two different publishers want chapters and there is a third I need to call back. I think I'll give them the morning ... then work on my tan.
Oh yeah ... I'm doing a wedding at Fannie's this afternoon.
So much to do ... so little time.
I'm going to enjoy it while I got it.
Sitting outside of a hospital emergency room in Richmond, Virgina my old friend Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one who went to Seminary with me) was trying to stay awake. He'd been up for 25 straight hours waiting on a patient to die so that he could oversee the donation of body parts that would keep others alive. He filled some of the time by writing me.
"I hear rumor that you are engaged, I could tell back in November that Sarah is the woman for you." He went on to describe a Hodge-podge of the future and the past. His aging parents need constant supervision and their days are numbered. Business is booming so he works more than he ever has. He and Kathy are returning to the scene of one of our greatest crimes ... when he threw over the wall of the Trappist Monastery where Thomas Merton used to live and I landed on two monks who had taken vows of silence only to cuss.
"I don't know if I can get Kathy to do it," he says of throwing her over the wall, "I may spend all of my time at the Makers Mark Distillery. Tell Sarah 'Hi.'"
On this brilliant last morning of February that occurs every four years, I read his message again and am lost in thought. Whenever Bill and I are together, things happen. We've been around the world more than once ... chased by Turkish whores in Prague, walked together on the railroad track out of Auschwitz in Poland because there was no other way to leave, and he got me busted in Cuba. I love the man.
I imagine him sitting outside of the Emergency Room, leaning in a chair, the back of his head against the wall, fighting off sleep so that he can comfort the dead and save the living at the same time.
As the day unfolds, it becomes this crazy series of exchanges ... both though cyber space and live ... good news and bad news ... love and something other than love. Old friends want me to return to acting like the way I used to act and chiding me not doing so. Newer friends finding themselves in a position where they have to choose ... continue being my friend could risk offending somebody. There are conversations with attorneys, birthday wishes to Lenora, thanks to Jenny Gentry for inspiration, invitations from Stacy and expectations from Roma. My son Jeremy and I have a long talk about nothing and everything. Sarah sits beside me wrestling with similar things.
It's all a Hodge-podge of past and my future.
Suddenly, it's night time and Sarah and I make our way to Fannie's-on-the-Beach for Essie's surprise birthday. We're joined by Cheryl and Wyn (an old friend and a new one). Essie is surprised and everyone has a good time. At one point, I'm half-way listening to Sarah and Wyn who are in deep conversation when Jenny O is kicking my foot.
I stand up and she hugs me.
"You ready for this?," she asks in dead seriousness.
And I swear it was four of the sweetest words ever uttered. Behind each word was love and concern for me, where I'm at and where I'm going.
Salt water leaked out of my eyes as I nodded yes.
"Good," she said. "We'll get some pink table clothes, the bands good, and a bunch of people who don't know you will join those who do and toast you and Sarah. It'll be great!"
We hugged again and she made her way off to run Fannies.
Staring at the brilliant sunshine dancing with Fran's thousand shades of green, I think about Thomas Merton, the Trappist Monk whose ghost Bill and I chased all those years ago. Merton was something! He wrote great books and pushed Catholicism to be more than it was. He did these things having taken a vow of silence and lived alone in a Hermitage. He died trying to unite Buddhist monks with Catholic ones. A lot of Catholics were happy about it.
When Bill threw me over the wall that day, we were determined to find his Hermitage. It didn't go as planned.
Nothing ever does.
But you know what? I have lots of love again. The friends I have now are good ones. The uncertainty about the future are deep but the celebrations of the present keep doubts at bay. Somehow I've managed to achieve knowing exactly what I'm doing without having a clue at the same time!
Yesterday was cloudy, windy and cold.
Today is sunshine, blue skies, a calm ocean for sailing away and a warm exclamation point to "a long, cold, lonely winter."
I have things to do this morning. People in Atlanta, New York and Savannah want stuff from me. Two different publishers want chapters and there is a third I need to call back. I think I'll give them the morning ... then work on my tan.
Oh yeah ... I'm doing a wedding at Fannie's this afternoon.
So much to do ... so little time.
I'm going to enjoy it while I got it.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Petty
I've always tried to stay on the High Road as I've lived my life.
The Low Road is so crowded.
On a cruise ship last week we noticed that the deck chairs around the swimming pool were packed tightly together and each was occupied. There was hardly room to walk between them. Even where there weren't any chairs, people sat at tables or at the bar ... watching the pool which was of course full. But everybody was facing the same way, looking at the same thing, determined to keep their space. Someone would stand to pee or something and people hovered over their chair, wanting it ... lusting after it.
I couldn't handle it.
It was madness.
Making our way up top, it was less crowded. There were the same deck chairs but with more space between them. We turned them in whatever direction we wished. There was the option of looking down on the crowded pool and the crazy collection down there.
But ... we had an ocean breeze. We had the ocean! Standing with my back to the crowds, I stared out at the sea. Majestic and blue, it was endless ... with possibilities and promise. There were fewer of us taking notice of it. I stood there peering into the future though very mindful of where I've come from ... and who and what brought me to this place in my life.
After decades of it, I'm not obligated to anybody or any institution right now. I can say or do what I want. I can name names. I can open my heart and let you walk inside. I can be ... honest ... which is a very High Road thing to aspire to. I can share it with a conviction that it helps others and that's also a trait of the High Road.
People criticize me for it. I no longer care. No matter what I do, I'm criticized for it. They can be self-righteousness and call me petty.
It doesn't matter.
What does matter is that I'm being true to myself. Others ... lots of others ... seem to find comfort or challenge in my sharing. It seems as though a community is being born ... a global one. Instant messages and long private ones fly across cyber space in real time. My mornings are taken away to converse with people who connect with whatever I am sharing. There's something holy about it that I'm still trying to figure out.
There's the other side too. Last night an old friend told me Shame on you for saying things you shouldn't say and naming names you shouldn't name.
I have nothing to be ashamed of ... I've given all of my best and I still try to do so.
My friend Phil Schaengold once said that "old CEO's should just go away." He was referring to my dear friend Bob Colvin, an old CEO who wasn't going away. A short time later, Phil was an old CEO going away.
I remember when he said this in the hallway of Memorial Health University Medical Center and being a little shocked by it. Bob had done many great things that made this city better. Why should he have to go anywhere?
Then again, I am a man of faith. Jesus was killed and buried. He wasn't supposed to be heard from again ... but he was.
I will be too.
The Low Road is so crowded.
On a cruise ship last week we noticed that the deck chairs around the swimming pool were packed tightly together and each was occupied. There was hardly room to walk between them. Even where there weren't any chairs, people sat at tables or at the bar ... watching the pool which was of course full. But everybody was facing the same way, looking at the same thing, determined to keep their space. Someone would stand to pee or something and people hovered over their chair, wanting it ... lusting after it.
I couldn't handle it.
It was madness.
Making our way up top, it was less crowded. There were the same deck chairs but with more space between them. We turned them in whatever direction we wished. There was the option of looking down on the crowded pool and the crazy collection down there.
But ... we had an ocean breeze. We had the ocean! Standing with my back to the crowds, I stared out at the sea. Majestic and blue, it was endless ... with possibilities and promise. There were fewer of us taking notice of it. I stood there peering into the future though very mindful of where I've come from ... and who and what brought me to this place in my life.
After decades of it, I'm not obligated to anybody or any institution right now. I can say or do what I want. I can name names. I can open my heart and let you walk inside. I can be ... honest ... which is a very High Road thing to aspire to. I can share it with a conviction that it helps others and that's also a trait of the High Road.
People criticize me for it. I no longer care. No matter what I do, I'm criticized for it. They can be self-righteousness and call me petty.
It doesn't matter.
What does matter is that I'm being true to myself. Others ... lots of others ... seem to find comfort or challenge in my sharing. It seems as though a community is being born ... a global one. Instant messages and long private ones fly across cyber space in real time. My mornings are taken away to converse with people who connect with whatever I am sharing. There's something holy about it that I'm still trying to figure out.
There's the other side too. Last night an old friend told me Shame on you for saying things you shouldn't say and naming names you shouldn't name.
I have nothing to be ashamed of ... I've given all of my best and I still try to do so.
My friend Phil Schaengold once said that "old CEO's should just go away." He was referring to my dear friend Bob Colvin, an old CEO who wasn't going away. A short time later, Phil was an old CEO going away.
I remember when he said this in the hallway of Memorial Health University Medical Center and being a little shocked by it. Bob had done many great things that made this city better. Why should he have to go anywhere?
Then again, I am a man of faith. Jesus was killed and buried. He wasn't supposed to be heard from again ... but he was.
I will be too.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Every Little Thing
I bought new flip flops yesterday in the Bahamas. Bob Marley's. Who knew Bob was into flip flops? I mean I know that he wore them when he has to wear shoes but to have his own brand 40 years after his death ... the man remains incredibly cool.
My old pair was worn out. There was no cushion to them at all. They were Reefs that had logged many a mile. They were a gift from Julie a long time ago. Having grown up in Port Wentworth, Georgia, flip flops were not a part of the southern culture. Sneakers were although we called them tennis shoes for some reason. I mostly went barefoot which remains my shoe of choice.
When I first started wearing the flops it was awkward squeezing my toes together to keep then from falling off. Eventually I got the hang of it and if shoes were required then flops became my first option if I couldn't go barefoot.
So I left Julie's gift in a Bahamian trash can and slid into my Bob Marley's. The temperature was in the 80's, I sipped a Tropical drink, listening to a really fine Reggae band play an outdoor show on the Straw Market. Sarah was shopping for the girls and the plan was to work on our tans as we prepare for bigger things in a few days.
Sliding her arm into mine, we made our way back to the boat. My feet felt great though my arm felt better. We ran into Johnny O and Judy O getting off the boat as we were getting back on. Twenty minutes later we were all at the poolside bar with the Carnival of Friends.
A Reggae Band played Bob Marley. "Three Little Birds" ... With the refrain "Every little thing is gonna be alright.".
It was a rotten time when Bob wrote the song. Jamaica was in Civil War and he was am international Superstar. The warring factions tried to recruit him but he cared little for politics. The masses wanted to know what he thought. So he invited the leaders of the warring factions on stage with him and grabbed their hands pulling then over his head. Six tightly glassed hands.
"One Love," he said.
And that was it.
They were pissed and the violence got worse. In despair, Bob smoked a spliff and heard three little birds sing. "Every little thing's gonna be alright." and he wrote a song about sitting there listen to God speak through three little birds.
Sarah and I locked eyes for the briefest of seconds. There is a lot going on and all of it is not good, family and friends have forsaken us, work is being created and defined by the seat of our pants, there are families to blend and I've never dine corporate taxes before ... but you know what?
Every little thing's gonna be alright.
And when I forget, I'll slide into my Bob Marley's ... while Sarah's arm slides into mine.
My old pair was worn out. There was no cushion to them at all. They were Reefs that had logged many a mile. They were a gift from Julie a long time ago. Having grown up in Port Wentworth, Georgia, flip flops were not a part of the southern culture. Sneakers were although we called them tennis shoes for some reason. I mostly went barefoot which remains my shoe of choice.
When I first started wearing the flops it was awkward squeezing my toes together to keep then from falling off. Eventually I got the hang of it and if shoes were required then flops became my first option if I couldn't go barefoot.
So I left Julie's gift in a Bahamian trash can and slid into my Bob Marley's. The temperature was in the 80's, I sipped a Tropical drink, listening to a really fine Reggae band play an outdoor show on the Straw Market. Sarah was shopping for the girls and the plan was to work on our tans as we prepare for bigger things in a few days.
Sliding her arm into mine, we made our way back to the boat. My feet felt great though my arm felt better. We ran into Johnny O and Judy O getting off the boat as we were getting back on. Twenty minutes later we were all at the poolside bar with the Carnival of Friends.
A Reggae Band played Bob Marley. "Three Little Birds" ... With the refrain "Every little thing is gonna be alright.".
It was a rotten time when Bob wrote the song. Jamaica was in Civil War and he was am international Superstar. The warring factions tried to recruit him but he cared little for politics. The masses wanted to know what he thought. So he invited the leaders of the warring factions on stage with him and grabbed their hands pulling then over his head. Six tightly glassed hands.
"One Love," he said.
And that was it.
They were pissed and the violence got worse. In despair, Bob smoked a spliff and heard three little birds sing. "Every little thing's gonna be alright." and he wrote a song about sitting there listen to God speak through three little birds.
Sarah and I locked eyes for the briefest of seconds. There is a lot going on and all of it is not good, family and friends have forsaken us, work is being created and defined by the seat of our pants, there are families to blend and I've never dine corporate taxes before ... but you know what?
Every little thing's gonna be alright.
And when I forget, I'll slide into my Bob Marley's ... while Sarah's arm slides into mine.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Restless in the Bahamas
Sitting moored in Freeport on Grand Bahamas Island, the weather is cloudy and given the last several days feels as cold as a Michigan winter … though it is in the 70s.
My son Jeremy tells me that I’ve been to Freeport though I don’t remember.
That’s funny because I’m an island guy and know intimate details about every island that I’ve ever visited which are many … Tybee Island is home of course and in the United States it is Key West, Islamorada, Cedar Key …
Further south it is … the Pineapple Festival in Eleuthra, the Rain Forest in St. Lucia, Brock Island up North, Hedonism in Jamacia, Rockefeller Beach in St. Barts, and St. Martin of course.
Nassau is ok and I had a really good time there a couple of days ago.
If I’ve been to Freeport then it is unmemorable and I have no real regrets not remembering it.
Having said that, the island does a fabulous job welcoming people from the ships, it’s friendly though quaint and … I admit it, I’m a snob … I’ve been to islands that have stolen my heart and though I visit others, I long for the ones which hold me.
It is all good though. I’m with the one I love most ... with the Carnival of Friends who have remained with me throughout the changes … both requested or unwantedly dumped upon me … in February working on my tan and back in my Temperate Zone … no shoes, no worries … no problem Mon.
I’ve had my share of problems lately.
Little sons-of bitches who want to feel tall … though they are much more like the little man in the sycamore tree … (Hello Jerry Rainy, John Tatum, Don Waters, etc.)
Loyal co-workers who know nothing about co (which stands for community … as in the Beloved Community … which Martin Luther King, Jr. lived and gave his life and they pay homage to every day … though they only give a shit about their blackness winning at all costs … fuck everything else!) … Hey Aretha, Lavanda, Terry, Letitia, Ayana, Joanie and Lauren.
Self-righteous Religious pricks who think they are the center of the Universe … speaking for God for thirty minutes every Sunday morning in their robes and self-pompous clothing … I need to tell you something … I never left you. You left me.
Friends who loved me right up until … they didn’t (like Pilates washing their hands … not giving a shit about crucifixions and such … there were golf courses to be conquered and good causes to be raped). There are too many to mention …
Elected officials who demanded everything from me but when I could no longer help them (name one … it doesn’t matter which one … or which party … they are all the same … caring about reelection more than anything else and selling their souls for it on a daily basis … the biggest whore house in the world … and if you have issues with this, just read Abraham Lincoln’s journals of when he was elected to Congress … things have just gotten worse since Abe was killed) moved on to who could help next.
I was restless in the Bahamas last night.
Tossing and turning … I pondered my future.
I’ve spent too much time sleeping with whores ... tiny Board chairmen, Pilates who run the world, those who know best because it’s all they know, religious leaders who know everything and those going to the hottest parts of hell … who run everything.
Last night I was again being raped by them and then being so angry that I wanted to rape back.
I won’t do that though.
God is a loving God.
And I love God.
Not that Son-of-A-Bitch God that the leaders love.
But the one who accepted everyone … in spite of what they had done … who they had been … or where they were going.
The God of the Poor.
Define your Poor … it can mean a lot!
Than talk to God ...
Once that’s settled …
Let’s move to the Sons-of-Bitches.
My son Jeremy tells me that I’ve been to Freeport though I don’t remember.
That’s funny because I’m an island guy and know intimate details about every island that I’ve ever visited which are many … Tybee Island is home of course and in the United States it is Key West, Islamorada, Cedar Key …
Further south it is … the Pineapple Festival in Eleuthra, the Rain Forest in St. Lucia, Brock Island up North, Hedonism in Jamacia, Rockefeller Beach in St. Barts, and St. Martin of course.
Nassau is ok and I had a really good time there a couple of days ago.
If I’ve been to Freeport then it is unmemorable and I have no real regrets not remembering it.
Having said that, the island does a fabulous job welcoming people from the ships, it’s friendly though quaint and … I admit it, I’m a snob … I’ve been to islands that have stolen my heart and though I visit others, I long for the ones which hold me.
It is all good though. I’m with the one I love most ... with the Carnival of Friends who have remained with me throughout the changes … both requested or unwantedly dumped upon me … in February working on my tan and back in my Temperate Zone … no shoes, no worries … no problem Mon.
I’ve had my share of problems lately.
Little sons-of bitches who want to feel tall … though they are much more like the little man in the sycamore tree … (Hello Jerry Rainy, John Tatum, Don Waters, etc.)
Loyal co-workers who know nothing about co (which stands for community … as in the Beloved Community … which Martin Luther King, Jr. lived and gave his life and they pay homage to every day … though they only give a shit about their blackness winning at all costs … fuck everything else!) … Hey Aretha, Lavanda, Terry, Letitia, Ayana, Joanie and Lauren.
Self-righteous Religious pricks who think they are the center of the Universe … speaking for God for thirty minutes every Sunday morning in their robes and self-pompous clothing … I need to tell you something … I never left you. You left me.
Friends who loved me right up until … they didn’t (like Pilates washing their hands … not giving a shit about crucifixions and such … there were golf courses to be conquered and good causes to be raped). There are too many to mention …
Elected officials who demanded everything from me but when I could no longer help them (name one … it doesn’t matter which one … or which party … they are all the same … caring about reelection more than anything else and selling their souls for it on a daily basis … the biggest whore house in the world … and if you have issues with this, just read Abraham Lincoln’s journals of when he was elected to Congress … things have just gotten worse since Abe was killed) moved on to who could help next.
I was restless in the Bahamas last night.
Tossing and turning … I pondered my future.
I’ve spent too much time sleeping with whores ... tiny Board chairmen, Pilates who run the world, those who know best because it’s all they know, religious leaders who know everything and those going to the hottest parts of hell … who run everything.
Last night I was again being raped by them and then being so angry that I wanted to rape back.
I won’t do that though.
God is a loving God.
And I love God.
Not that Son-of-A-Bitch God that the leaders love.
But the one who accepted everyone … in spite of what they had done … who they had been … or where they were going.
The God of the Poor.
Define your Poor … it can mean a lot!
Than talk to God ...
Once that’s settled …
Let’s move to the Sons-of-Bitches.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Paradise Island
The old rickety green and rust van blew through Nassau’s back streets, church parking lots, the “Sesame Street Daycare Center”. A police siren wailed in front of us and a pickup truck full of convicts wearing brown shirts that read “PRISONER” on the back held on for dear life as it raced through the traffic that we were stuck in.
“HEY MON!” yellowed our Bahamian cabbie yelled at them, “Take us too!”
Turning to look at Sarah and me sitting in the back seat, he said, “Don’t worry Mon, I smoke week with them guys.”
“Jah,” I replied.
A bright white grin launched across his dark black face.
“Rasitifari,” he said holding up a clinched fist.
“Rastifari,” I replied repeating the gesture.
Rastifarism is a religion that grew out of Jamica’s belief that the Kind of Zion was alive and well in Africa. There was no reason to wait on the Messiah, he was already here, alive and well. Soon he would come collect his twelve tribes and bring them home. He the meantime he blessed his waiting disciples with the gift of … marijuana. Smoke it until I come get you pretty much sums up his promise of deliverance from slavery, oppression and the evils of the world.
Only a handful of followers knew of this until Bob Marley became famous. The major evangelist of reggae music took the message worldwide.
Sarah was wearing her bathing suit, a black cover dress, large sunglasses and a smirk on her face. I think she was rolling her eyes. I hate on my old ripped University of Georgia baseball cap, a Shady in St. Martin tee shirt and running shorts. My bare feet were propped on the back of the cabbie’s seat.
“You American Rasitfari eat chicken,” he said with the smile fading from his face. “Real Rastifari don’t eat no chicken Mon. We laugh at such foolishness.”
I shrug my shoulders.
Inching along in the major traffic cluster of this day, with five cruise ships all in port on a Friday afternoon, he is frustrated. Trying to cram as many people into his van as possible to take to Paradise Island he’s been rushing back and forth making lots of money. Our drive over took five minutes. We were already at twenty on the return ride.
It was easy to find him leaving Paradise Island. We’d stayed for about ten minutes. I’ve been to the Mall before.
He rolls the rusty green van to a beautiful black woman decked in red and asks where she’s going. She tells him the airport for a 2:00 flight somewhere. It’s 1:35.
“Promise to take off your clothes for me sometime and I will take you. Get in.”
She does eying Sarah and me with suspicion.
“Don’t worry about dem. They be real tourists.”
Looking at me again, “You want some weed Mon?”
Laughing and shaking my head from side to side, I tell him no.
“I got to make money Mon,” he says.
I figure he’s more Republican than Rastifari.
Pulling up to another taxi, he barters passing off the woman in red so that he can hurry and make the return ride to Paradise Island.
We just laugh as he does a U-turn in front of a bunch of tourists waiting to be carried away to Paradise with air-conditioning.
“How much,” I ask. It had cost us $8 for the trip over.
“You look like a rich man,” he says in response, “Fifteen!”
Sarah burst out laughing.
We strode the streets of Nassau to Juckaroo Beach and had beer, coke and conch fritters. We swam in the aqua turquoise water of the Bahamas. Local children were diving off of a jetty into the sea and we watched smiling. Some kids from the cruise ships joined them which made it nicer.
As the sun began to set, we made our way back to the ship to hook up with our friends.
It had been a perfect day in paradise on an island in paradise.
Which is not to be confused with Paradise Island.
“HEY MON!” yellowed our Bahamian cabbie yelled at them, “Take us too!”
Turning to look at Sarah and me sitting in the back seat, he said, “Don’t worry Mon, I smoke week with them guys.”
“Jah,” I replied.
A bright white grin launched across his dark black face.
“Rasitifari,” he said holding up a clinched fist.
“Rastifari,” I replied repeating the gesture.
Rastifarism is a religion that grew out of Jamica’s belief that the Kind of Zion was alive and well in Africa. There was no reason to wait on the Messiah, he was already here, alive and well. Soon he would come collect his twelve tribes and bring them home. He the meantime he blessed his waiting disciples with the gift of … marijuana. Smoke it until I come get you pretty much sums up his promise of deliverance from slavery, oppression and the evils of the world.
Only a handful of followers knew of this until Bob Marley became famous. The major evangelist of reggae music took the message worldwide.
Sarah was wearing her bathing suit, a black cover dress, large sunglasses and a smirk on her face. I think she was rolling her eyes. I hate on my old ripped University of Georgia baseball cap, a Shady in St. Martin tee shirt and running shorts. My bare feet were propped on the back of the cabbie’s seat.
“You American Rasitfari eat chicken,” he said with the smile fading from his face. “Real Rastifari don’t eat no chicken Mon. We laugh at such foolishness.”
I shrug my shoulders.
Inching along in the major traffic cluster of this day, with five cruise ships all in port on a Friday afternoon, he is frustrated. Trying to cram as many people into his van as possible to take to Paradise Island he’s been rushing back and forth making lots of money. Our drive over took five minutes. We were already at twenty on the return ride.
It was easy to find him leaving Paradise Island. We’d stayed for about ten minutes. I’ve been to the Mall before.
He rolls the rusty green van to a beautiful black woman decked in red and asks where she’s going. She tells him the airport for a 2:00 flight somewhere. It’s 1:35.
“Promise to take off your clothes for me sometime and I will take you. Get in.”
She does eying Sarah and me with suspicion.
“Don’t worry about dem. They be real tourists.”
Looking at me again, “You want some weed Mon?”
Laughing and shaking my head from side to side, I tell him no.
“I got to make money Mon,” he says.
I figure he’s more Republican than Rastifari.
Pulling up to another taxi, he barters passing off the woman in red so that he can hurry and make the return ride to Paradise Island.
We just laugh as he does a U-turn in front of a bunch of tourists waiting to be carried away to Paradise with air-conditioning.
“How much,” I ask. It had cost us $8 for the trip over.
“You look like a rich man,” he says in response, “Fifteen!”
Sarah burst out laughing.
We strode the streets of Nassau to Juckaroo Beach and had beer, coke and conch fritters. We swam in the aqua turquoise water of the Bahamas. Local children were diving off of a jetty into the sea and we watched smiling. Some kids from the cruise ships joined them which made it nicer.
As the sun began to set, we made our way back to the ship to hook up with our friends.
It had been a perfect day in paradise on an island in paradise.
Which is not to be confused with Paradise Island.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Cruise Sponosred by Wall Mart
Sitting at the buffet on the ocean, I’m watching one cruise ship head in one direction as the one I’m sitting on heads in the other. The sea is majestic, the sky is blue, the salty breeze is refreshing as the coffee hits the spot.
Johnny O and Judy O are eating breakfast which boggles my mind given the twenty-eight course meal that we had last night. Dedra is talking without breathing. Cheryl and Jodee are nowhere to be found. I am afraid that Sarah is dead.
But we had a good time … we think.
I’ll get back to you on that.
I confess that I am not a cruiser. The last one I was on was 12 years ago. It’s kind of like Camp at Sea but we’d promised the kids so we did. I swore that I would never do that again.
I’m an island hopper. I like going to one and sliding into the culture. St. Martin is my island away from my island. I love the ocean though and I will say that this is a nice way to start the day, sitting with friends breathing in salt air on the deep blue sea.
It only cost us a few hundred dollars to be here and we decided it was time for a spring break for adults. So here we are.
We did not understand that the reason this cruise is so cheap is that it is sponsored by Wall Mart! Everybody else on this cruise apparently won their ticket because they appear on the People of Wall Mart web page (if you’ve never visited it … do it!).
How many fat people can you fir into a hot tub?
They jump into a hot tub full of water, causing a tsunami and when they get out the hot tub is empty.
How many people in baseball caps missing a front tooth does it take to start a stampede?
The answer is one.
If one makes his or her way to the buffet the entire damn ship stops what they’re doing and wobbles like hell to get in line.
Dedra just shut everybody up when she said, “You know I look at people and say … I used to dress like that.”
“You dressed in brown shorts and plaid turquoise pants with an extra wide butt?”
She confesses that she did.
This is the first day of Adult Spring break. The cruise ship director (a real pain-in-the-ass) has us scheduled to conduct a hostile takeover of Nassau, Bahamas at 12:00 noon. The city will capitulate in record time.
Well, now all of the children have woken up and are screaming that they don’t want that for breakfast. “I WANT McDONALD’S!)
The cruise director (a real-pain-in-the-ass) has informed us that we must be back on the boat to disembark Nassau by 8:00 or we may be left behind.
If Sarah ever gets up, I’m going to try to talk her into staying.
Johnny O and Judy O are eating breakfast which boggles my mind given the twenty-eight course meal that we had last night. Dedra is talking without breathing. Cheryl and Jodee are nowhere to be found. I am afraid that Sarah is dead.
But we had a good time … we think.
I’ll get back to you on that.
I confess that I am not a cruiser. The last one I was on was 12 years ago. It’s kind of like Camp at Sea but we’d promised the kids so we did. I swore that I would never do that again.
I’m an island hopper. I like going to one and sliding into the culture. St. Martin is my island away from my island. I love the ocean though and I will say that this is a nice way to start the day, sitting with friends breathing in salt air on the deep blue sea.
It only cost us a few hundred dollars to be here and we decided it was time for a spring break for adults. So here we are.
We did not understand that the reason this cruise is so cheap is that it is sponsored by Wall Mart! Everybody else on this cruise apparently won their ticket because they appear on the People of Wall Mart web page (if you’ve never visited it … do it!).
How many fat people can you fir into a hot tub?
They jump into a hot tub full of water, causing a tsunami and when they get out the hot tub is empty.
How many people in baseball caps missing a front tooth does it take to start a stampede?
The answer is one.
If one makes his or her way to the buffet the entire damn ship stops what they’re doing and wobbles like hell to get in line.
Dedra just shut everybody up when she said, “You know I look at people and say … I used to dress like that.”
“You dressed in brown shorts and plaid turquoise pants with an extra wide butt?”
She confesses that she did.
This is the first day of Adult Spring break. The cruise ship director (a real pain-in-the-ass) has us scheduled to conduct a hostile takeover of Nassau, Bahamas at 12:00 noon. The city will capitulate in record time.
Well, now all of the children have woken up and are screaming that they don’t want that for breakfast. “I WANT McDONALD’S!)
The cruise director (a real-pain-in-the-ass) has informed us that we must be back on the boat to disembark Nassau by 8:00 or we may be left behind.
If Sarah ever gets up, I’m going to try to talk her into staying.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Adults on Spring Break
It began with a party in a south Florida hotel room where an arrest was barely averted.
"You know," I said to Jodee at one point, "this is like we were twenty years ago."
"Except we drink better wine now," he shot back.
It's true. The wine is better but the actions are incredibly similar to what we did when we were younger.
The other thing that happens now is that I go to bed earlier. I start early but I always did. Now I go to bed earlier.
But doing the chicken dance naked beside the hotel swimming pool ... then having security chase you away ... well, how many people can claim to have done in life?
In fact, the world would likely be a much better place if once a year everybody had to do the chicken dance naked in front of people they don't like. It doesn't necessarily have to be by a swimming pool but I think it helps.
And alcohol doesn't have to be a factor (but I think it helps).
So this morning I'm doing what any mid-50 year old man on Spring Break does ... taking a bath in coffee, eating Mydol because I can't find the asprin and wondering what happened to my suitcase.
I am in the same hotel room that I checked into when we arrived so ... that's a good sign.
Now reconstruction begins.
Not the putting back together of the United States after the Civil War ... but the attempt to collectively remember everything that happened last night. It will take all seven of us to collect all of the details and get them in order.
Today we've been asked to vacate South Florida so we're getting on a cruise ship for the Bahamas.
While others don't forgive me for the way that I practice my faith, I have. I think God enjoys it all watching us enjoy ourselves. I believe She made us to be happy. Besides, I go to Bar Church where our creedo is that Jesus really did turn water into wine and ... dammit if we're going to be followers of Jesus then we're going to keep practing until we get it right!
I just finished my morning exercises ... meaning I fell and tumbled through the living room area to the bedroom area ... and did a perfect triple sumorsalt landing on both feet on top of my lost suitcase.
Now I'm ready.
Cracking up the Beach Boys on the lap top, I find Sarah and we dance.
Adult Spring Break is off to a rocking start!
"You know," I said to Jodee at one point, "this is like we were twenty years ago."
"Except we drink better wine now," he shot back.
It's true. The wine is better but the actions are incredibly similar to what we did when we were younger.
The other thing that happens now is that I go to bed earlier. I start early but I always did. Now I go to bed earlier.
But doing the chicken dance naked beside the hotel swimming pool ... then having security chase you away ... well, how many people can claim to have done in life?
In fact, the world would likely be a much better place if once a year everybody had to do the chicken dance naked in front of people they don't like. It doesn't necessarily have to be by a swimming pool but I think it helps.
And alcohol doesn't have to be a factor (but I think it helps).
So this morning I'm doing what any mid-50 year old man on Spring Break does ... taking a bath in coffee, eating Mydol because I can't find the asprin and wondering what happened to my suitcase.
I am in the same hotel room that I checked into when we arrived so ... that's a good sign.
Now reconstruction begins.
Not the putting back together of the United States after the Civil War ... but the attempt to collectively remember everything that happened last night. It will take all seven of us to collect all of the details and get them in order.
Today we've been asked to vacate South Florida so we're getting on a cruise ship for the Bahamas.
While others don't forgive me for the way that I practice my faith, I have. I think God enjoys it all watching us enjoy ourselves. I believe She made us to be happy. Besides, I go to Bar Church where our creedo is that Jesus really did turn water into wine and ... dammit if we're going to be followers of Jesus then we're going to keep practing until we get it right!
I just finished my morning exercises ... meaning I fell and tumbled through the living room area to the bedroom area ... and did a perfect triple sumorsalt landing on both feet on top of my lost suitcase.
Now I'm ready.
Cracking up the Beach Boys on the lap top, I find Sarah and we dance.
Adult Spring Break is off to a rocking start!
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