Please Note: this is more like a travel journal and I have not gone over it and changed it. So I suspect it will be after I hit "Publish", is when I will regret this decision.
Why do I not write when inspired? Why do I still use excuse
that I will get to it later when I never do? I had a wonderful “idea”
formulated in my head for the beginning of my book and did I write it down? No.
Instead I mentioned it to my friend as my newly realized brilliant beginning
but that I would write when here at La Push. Well here I am at La Push and not
at all inspired. My mood was setting the scene and I must learn to go with
that. It might make for bipolar writing, but it was always going to be that way
so why the fuck fight nature!?
I am just so tired of my self-sabotaging antics when it
comes to writing my book. Yes I need to focus on building my brand TQOT but
even with my focused turned, I come up with ideas to write, and that again, I
never fucking write!! This is becoming as redundant as my suicidal ideology; I
will never do it, so why fucking even go there? Well the book will indeed
exists, so why not just get on with it?
So to those worried about being in the book, it is likely
because you are going to be. I figure anyone “concerned” is so because they
know the truth is not as pretty as fiction and that they do not wish to be
viewed in any other way than they see fit. Well my message is this: get over
it! If I decide our story together speaks to the human condition, mainly MY
human condition, well its going in. And I am pretty certain of one thing, if
this book succeeds as predicted, you will go from embarrassed to wanting the
lime-lighted attention a book like this can garner. This isn’t me bragging,
this is a real possibility, one I have pondered at great length and I know many
will turn to wanting the attention for the 15 mins or even 2 mins of notoriety.
Fuck there is a chance that’s exactly how long my mins will be. And another
thing, no one will be exposing the juggler like myself. Not anyone. Remember you are characters in the carnival
of my life; you are a part of my story. It will be told from my point of view
and if I get shit wrong, oh well, I am changing your names so get the fuck over
it.
Oh and another thing, to those I actually give a shit about,
I will not be holding back. It will not work otherwise. Please understand that
again if you are player in my play, it’s because I think people will want to
read about it. We all have lessons to dispense in Poor Impulse Control; I mean
if you make the timeline cut. Though many of you will be in one of my books,
blogs, and one of these days…articles. I can easily see my future just writing
about me, people around me, and the experiences we have. Like Sex in the City
and Eat Pray Love…only totally fucked up, dark, twisted, but with puppy love
endings and shit.
This is me just journaling my thoughts as they pop into my
noggin as I try real hard not to smoke. My lungs hurt and I smell bad. I hugged
someone the other day I had not seen in a long while and I was embarrassed
because I knew I stunk and could see in his face that he found it repulsive,
which not that fucking long ago, I did as well. There is a combination of acts
that has led here to the demise of lung health and lets just add, my liver
health as well.
Let’s start with smoking because that was becoming a thing
straight out the fucking gate in Belize. It starts with joints. Rolling is how
it’s done in Belize and the weed lends itself to it well and though I could not
roll to save my life at first, in the end, even with endless practice, I was no better. Still I rolled and smoked
dozens of ridiculous looking joints that led to a growing sense of smoking cigarettes.
I could feel a shift but I still had no intentions of making the leap from
joint to filtered cigarette, since I had not smoked in YEARS and wasn’t going
to break my record as I still found it, icky. Well that’s till I met The
Irishman who offered me a cig every time he had one, which was numerous and who
was I to say no to those freckles and deep voiced accent? Apparently not I and so
inclination was then anchored with copious amounts of rum punch. Oh Mayawalk
and your 2 for 5.00 BLZ (that’s 2.50 US) rum punch. It is almost certain you
are the real reason why my liver function tests found some…dysfunction.
Fuck! All this talk of smoking is making me want to…SMOKE!
Don’t look….
Whilst outside not
smoking I made note that there is no better score for sea gazing than from
the movie The Piano. I can observe the ebb and flow of the sea for hours but
when dark and rainy as it is now, nothing is more perfect. Though truth be
told, I can watch nature for endless hours in general, just as I did in Belize.
I watched a few times over the plantains outside my window bloom flowers
looking to be from a Jules Verne novel. These large purple plumes would open
and unfold tiny baby plantain growing and awaiting the neighbor’s machete. They
would come from their tin roof shack to hack down the fruit, lugging the
burgeoning bunch over their shoulders on their bicycle to the market for profit.
Belizeans are experts at balancing heavy parcels on bicycles.
Oh look, a seagull with what appears to be a large piece of
fried chicken in its beak….cannibal.
The Sun just had to make an appearance, prompting me to take
a million snaps I said would never be. Never say never in matters that concern
Mother Nature and her awesome ways. I
even worked on my tan basking in cold rays on my deck as I drank Irish creamed
Early Grey.
The Milky Way!! Even beer swilling red neck hunters with
their porch light pollution cannot ruin…the fucking Milky Way! Sitting there
wrapped up against the cold, drinking hard cider with my neck bent way back
(ouch) I realized this is always a constant and just because I cannot observe
it, doesn’t mean the stars not observing me.
It’s like those moments of sadness when I am sure I am alone, I’m not. It’s
the grandest of illusions, just as the cloud cover and light pollution veils
the Milky Way from view. Oh how I know how hard this is to put into practice in
the everyday. How do you connect, to feel it when you are in a room in the
basement alone and cannot even see the sky? You breathe through it and fake it
till you fucking make it if need be. And when you can, push you out the fucking
door and find a tree.
Nature never fails to amaze and rejuvenate, even if it be
just your tiny urban garden, stick your hands in the soil. Go to your local
park and sit at the base of a tree. If luck shines upon you and on Caribbean
island, bury your toes in the sand and splash the water like a child. Were ever
you find yourself, just close your eyes and feel the connection. The connection
is there we just have layers of veils distorting our view, leading us to the
united delusion that we are alone, separate, to the point we believe it’s not there. Well it is. You cannot even disconnect if you
wanted, you are a part of everything, and
everything is right the fuck back
atcha!
Shit I guess that makes us all Gods/Goddesses…well that’s not
scary at all.
If you want to see the pictures I took..."like" my Facebook page! Here be a sneak peek.
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