Blissful Vagabond

blissful vagabond1

There has always been a vast difference between the sum of us and the minute majority minority group aptly named, vagabonds.

vagabond

[vaguh-bond] 

Spell Syllables

  • Synonyms
  • Examples
  • Word Origin

adjective

1.

wandering from place to place without any settled home; nomadic:

a vagabond tribe.

2.

leading an unsettled or carefree life.

3.

disreputable; worthless; shiftless.

4.

of, relating to, or characteristic of a vagabond:

vagabond habits.

5.

having an uncertain or irregular course or direction:

a vagabond voyage.

##

I had the privilege of growing up in an era without phones that attached to the hip or ear or back pocket. My phone was built of empty B and M bean tin cans and string that had been stolen from my brother’s shoes.

Alas, the simple life, ain’t so simple. How often have we heard of snippets/books such as, How to become Rich, How to be a millionaire, Why not be a real estate mogul in three easy steps?

How often has anyone yelled from a broken and abandoned building housing nomads, people living the simple life:

Enter in here and you will learn how to be poor!

Once upon a time, I made enough money to make myself look important without being humble. I also found myself, intrinsically, going nowhere fast. IT hadn’t been that my riches were not full and electric and fancy and top of the line. IT had been that my soul had been admonished with attachments that were nowhere near what my heart desired most.

Course, not being bright or quick to learn, I discovered ‘self’ the hard way with repeated attempts at ignoring the obvious. The donut had been my life and my soul had been the hole. It took two fires, and hopefully it ends at that, to awaken my ignorantly imagined infinitely blissful psyche. As with blissful vagabond 2

most house fires, on both occasions, we had lost what I had assumed was the root of Ruth. Trophies spouting off how wonderful am I, top of the line lesbian wardrobe, a tell tale sign of my physical attributes and assorted vanity items. Note the word, vanity!

After my Higher Power’s second attempt at comedy, the house that Ruth built burning slowly to the ground, I gave up. A surrender of sorts. A fall to the knees in an open corn field. Head to the turbulent sky. Eyes fixed on spirituality’s revelations not mankind or womankind’s justification. I had heard, through the grapevine, that one knows when they have had too much. Internally we are all aware of rock bottoms personal vendetta.

All that has been written is truth. Yet, as I have said, I am a slow and not too steady learner. There are still on and off again moments where I just have to have that third Tablet/Kindle just in case the other two die. Or, times where I say to self, oh, it’s only a dollar. Three or four solar-powered plastic flowers the move via the light won’t hurt anybody.

My family is dysfunction with a capital D. My kin should have a mascot decorated with kitchen knives, bad karma and a scary clown head. They are what they are. And, it takes what it takes.

This time, it took ‘family in crisis’ to snap me to! Not that I had been out purchasing large lots of land and/or placing bets at the local Bingo Hall. But the ‘simple’ life had slowly started its downward descent into bargain basement shopping for the act of pleasuring one’s self with unnecessary plastic objects.

What I saw…when I again, saw the light? Aging parents that had done the best they could with what they were given via their own upbringing. And, I stand here today to tell you, they were given a bag of coal and flour and told to make the most of life with ‘the same shit’ their parents were given. On and on, and on and on, goes the vicious cycle of dysfunctional families.

Oh, physician heal thy self. Or, in this particular case, Zen Buddhist writer and fool, look what you’ve done now! I cannot begin to describe the night terrors. The slumbering sweat I awoke in. And/or the court jester-ing fool I witnessed in the morning mirror.

By slowly avoiding what it takes to ‘keep it simple‘. Which by the way is a hard and repetitive, daily journey into self. By masking myself in society’s masking tape. I forgot the following basic human and humble rules.

Who am I to judge? Judgment or mindfulness? Clinging to attachments can cloud and dilute the truth we all seek. How is it I came out so wonderful? If my parents were such mongers?

Living simply is not for the faint of heart. First step is in realizing that just by breathing, in today’s material world, you will be charged. Second step, going out of the house costs! Be aware that

the moment you step foot out the door; mileage, food, sun, parks and recreation, tagging the dogs, rabies shots and again, stepping out…costs money!blissful vagabond 3

To keep life at a minimum as far as expenditures to the masses, one should always start their journey with a fair to moderate idea of the ‘impact’ walking out the door will have. Life costs everyone. Yet, with education, it can have less impact on those with little means but large dreams.

To me, a vagabond for this century, is more likely free footed with structure.  Not a desperado with lackluster morals.  A vagabond for the current age, moves slightly through their places of the heart…leaving little and absorbing much.

Through the two house fires I have managed to keep three small trinkets of little money value. They are no bigger than an inch tall Snoopy action figures. By action I mean, Snoopy is blowing out birthday candles or napping on his dog house. The figurines were a gift from my father. At the time, his gestures had been in the form of verbal abuse and not typically, heart-felt items bought without premeditated goodness. Times were never filled with Norman Rockwell images of family bliss. My childhood consisted of the wanting to be a ghost. Not seen and not heard. Therefore, the idea of my angered by DNA and childhood poverty, father, giving me something so nonchalant, left and still leaves me…

BREATHLESS and WANTING TO KEEP THINGS SIMPLE

Cycle of Abuse: the Matriarch/Part Two

 

St. Mary's R.C. Church Waltham, MA
St. Mary’s R.C. Church Waltham, MA

Two days after my 45th birthday.  On Friday, January the 13th, 2012, my grandmother passed away.  Surrounding her on the 11th, had been a roomful of… mourners.  Nine or so family members gazing lovingly into her closed and slightly cold eyes.

Ruth, my grandmother, would not have had the send off any other way.  Even a nephew had attended.  Supposedly, he abhorred dying and death.  Therefore, it was to understood that he felt no need to visit his great-grandmother, while she was alive.  My niece could not be there.  She had an excused absence, as well.  After all, someone needed to keep an eye on the kids.

Yet, with good fortune, the rest of the fruit for the cake…did arrive.  My brother, Bud, even made an appearance for the following week.  The women folk fawned over the long-awaited return of, Bud.  He held/holds a special place in both my mother’s and sister’s…hearts.  Often in my mind’s eye, a ‘strange’ affection had been held for him.

Though, Bud, made very few appearances, he had been revered as, a special kind of guy.  Not always there when you needed him.  But willing to get upset and angry when long distant family conversations occurred.

Joking, poking fun at one another and for appearance sake, sobbing and paying homage.  I am certain, dear old Ruth, had been semi aware of the praise being lavished upon her.

I learned to not love my grandmother.  After being shunned for my homosexuality, by my grandfather.  And, subsequently, out of respect for Joe Poe’s wishes…my grandmother.

After the accusations of being just like my father.  A man both, Ruth and Joe, denounced.  After the many years of my addiction’s bad behavior being phoned about the family lifeline.  After being told I had been an angry, hateful, dishonest, cheat by the powers that be.  After all that, and so much more, I kept Ruth at arm’s length.

She referred to my partner and soon to be wife as, looking like a teenage boy with severe issues.  She choose to pick and choose my physical being apart like a piece of sludge through fine knit cloth.jesus 1.jpg

She choose.  She picked.  She insulted. She name called.

She had been the one and only, Ruth.

Odd, I had been named after her.  But after the rubbing off of family lies through cursed truth…I discovered that even, Grandma Ruth’s name had been a lie.  Indeed, her birth name had been, Victoria.

Ruth, though, being stubborn and tough, felt she needed a more…biblical-ly correct title.  A title that would suit her high standing with god.

Funny story?  Or, perhaps, not!  I managed to find myself being the lone speaker at my grandmother’s funeral.  That is other than the priest.  For some reason, my mother felt that the telling of ‘my story’, made me eligible to speak in public.

Often AA meetings like the participants to share, discuss and tell, their stories.  Stories of how they began the road to addiction’s hell and how they hoped to get off…the road.  Somehow, this personal perk made me allowable as, Ruth’s eulogy preacher.  Course, my sister had boo hoo’d this.  She, Sybil, deserved this honor.  After all, she visited my grandmother more often.  Six days a week.  As opposed to my two or three.  Plus, she shared with Ruth.

When Sybil took a tumble-down a flight of stairs.  Ruth had been able to see the photos Sybil took of her bruised and naked ass.  Many photos, many bruises, too much information, as Ruth put it.

Sybil also volunteered to clean, trim and file, grandma’s besieged, ancient toenails.  Sybil made a day out of it.  Bringing special treats to the nursing home.  Watching something special on the tiny television set.  Prepping and readying, Ruth for the ‘nail’ treatment.

How I wished my mother had chosen Sybil.  I ended up with the neuovirus.  My brother and sister-in-law did to.  I barely made it through the paying of respects…a couple of nights before.  Sweating, shaking, nodding instead of speaking, etc.

Upon approaching the pew at St. Mary’s Roman Catholic church.  St. Mary’s where my mother had once attended church and school.  St. Mary’s where only the good catholic’s of Waltham go.  When I finally managed to place my placid self down.  There had been a not so gentle reminder of frankincense burning.  Burning my eyes, my soul, my stomach and helping to shut down all defenses.  Thank christ there had been toilets in the front and the back.

I spoke, as my wife later recalls, quickly, insistently and with vigor.

The matriarch of the clan had passed.  She had gone for 91 hard years.  Hard years of a punishing husband.  Hard years of turning that belted abuse toward her daughter, Janice.

Again, I am uncertain of not having an intrinsic love for her.  I did respect her.  She demanded it.

For awhile, I had not wanted to think about how unfortunate events…unfold.  Live in the pool of ignorance.  My life has never been blissful.  That is until recently.  When I had made a conscious decision to unmask truth.

It had been sometime in February.  Shortly after the funeral.  My mother’s side of the family had been dying slowly.  As is usually the case with age.  I knew little of those who  through, the filtered blood that ran into my veins.

I knew that the Quinn’s, the Stukoni’s, had been hard-drinking, hard talking, ravished souls.  A history of persons trying to live a good life.  A good life often laced with tragedy.  But what of the Bowley’s?  Where, what, when and how did they come about?  My father never gave attention to his side of the family.  Going as far as, avoiding them, physically.  We very rarely visited anyone with Bowley blood.  Though, we all lived in the same small state of New Hampshire.

February, ancestry.com, and my stubborn inquisitiveness, were about to change that mystery.1401636_150x150

 

 

Have a very lesbian, Christmas N a gay, New Year

 

 

Miss Dot Boil

13 Kissing Ball Lane

Beaver Bush, New York

December 14, 2015

Dearest Ruth:

I went to the door today and the postman delivered a partridge in a pear tree.  What a thoroughly delightful gift. I couldn’t have been more surprised.

With deepest love and devotion,

Dot

On the second day of Christmas…

xmas2

 Miss Dot Boil
13 Kissing Ball Lane
Beaver Bush, New York

December 15, 2015

Dearest Ruth:

Today the postman brought your very sweet gift.
Just imagine two turtle doves.  I’m delighted
at your very thoughtful gift.  They are just
adorable.

All my love,

Dot

On the third day of Christmas…

 Miss Dot Boil
very lesbian xmas 313 Kissing Ball Lane
Beaver Bush, New York

December 16, 2015

Dearest Ruth:

Oh!  Aren’t you the extravagant one.  Now I really
must protest.  I don’t deserve such generosity,
Three French hens. They are just darling but I must
insist, you’ve been too kind.

Love,

Dot

On the fourth day of Christmas…

Dr. Seuss' How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (mu...
Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (musical) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Dear Ruth,

Today the postman delivered 4 Calling birds.  Now
really, they are beautiful but don’t you think
enough is enough. You’re being too romantic.

Affectionately,

                                                                                                                Dot

On the fifth day of Christmas…

xmas4

 Miss Dot Boil
13 Kissing Ball Lane
Beaver Bush, New York

December 18, 2015

Dearest Ruth:

What a surprise.  Today the postman delivered 5
golden rings; one for every finger.  You’re just
impossible, but I love it. Frankly, all those birds
squawking were beginning to get on my nerves.

All my love,

Dot

very lesbian xmas 1On the sixth day of Christmas…

Miss Dot Boil
13 Kissing Ball Lane
Beaver Bush, New York

December 19, 2015

Dear Ruth Wad:

When I opened the door there were actually 6 geese
a-laying on my front steps.  So, you’re back to
the birds again, huh?  Those geese are huge.  Where
will I ever keep them?  The neighbors are
complaining and I can’t sleep through the racket.

Please stop.

Cordially,

Dot

On the seventh day of Christmas…

Bad Santa

 

Miss Dot Boil

13 Kissing Ball Lane

Beaver Bush, New York

December 20, 2013

RUTH:

What’s with you and those crazy birds?  7 swans
a-swimming. What kind of terrible joke is this?
There’s bird shit all over the house, and they
never stop with the racket.  I can’t sleep at
night and I’m a nervous wreck.  It’s not friggin’ funny.
So stop sending me all these birds!

Sincerely,

Dot

On the eighth day of Christmas…

xmas6

Miss Dot Boil
13 Kissing Ball Lane
Beaver Bush, New York

December 21, 2015

Cum Stain:

I think I prefer the birds.  What am I going to do
with 8 maids a-milking?  It’s not enough with all
those birds and 8 maids a-milking, but they had to
bring their cows!  There is shit all over the lawn
and I can’t move in my own house.  Just lay off me,
smart ass.

Dot

On the ninth day of Christmas…

Scrooge

  Miss Dot Boil
13 Kissing Ball Lane
Beaver Bush, New York

December 22, 2015

Hey!  Shit 4 brains,

What are you?  Some kind of sadist?  Now there’s 9
pipers playing.  And boy, do they play.  They’ve
never stopped chasing those maids since they got
here yesterday morning. They cows are getting upset,
and they’re stepping all over those screeching
birds. What am I going to do?  The neighbors have
started a petition to evict me.

You’ll get yours in Hell,

Dot

On the tenth day of Christmas…

 

Miss Dot Boil
13 Kissing Ball Lane
Beaver Bush, New York

December 23, 2015

You Evil Bitch,

Now there’s 10 ladies dancing.  I don’t know why I
call those sluts ladies.  They’ve been messing with
those pipers all night long.  Now the cows can’t
sleep and they’ve got the diarrhea. My living
room is a river of shit.  The Commissioner of
Buildings has subpoenaed me to give cause why this
building shouldn’t be condemned.

I’m sicking the PoPo on you.

-From Your Sworn Worse Enemy-

Dot

.

On the eleventh day of Christmas…

xmas5

Miss Dot Boil
13 Kissing Ball Lane
Beaver Bush, New York

December 24, 2015

Listen! Twat!,

What’s with the 11 lords a-leaping on those maids
and ladies. Some of those broads will never walk
again.  Those pipers ran through the maids and
have been committing sodomy with the cows.  All
23 of the birds are dead.  They’ve been trampled
to death in the orgy.  I hope you’re satisfied,
you rotten, vicious swine.

Suck my left tit,

Dot

On the twelfth day of Christmas…

 Law Offices
Boehner, Dick and Weiner
the Watergate Hotel, Room 666
Foggy Bottom, Washington D.C.

Merry Christmas graffiti

December 25, 2015
Dear Madam:

This is to acknowledge your latest gift of 12
fiddlers fiddling which you have seen fit to
inflict on our client, Miss Emma Boil.
The destruction, of course, was total.  All
correspondence should come to our attention.
If you should attempt to reach Miss Boil
at the Betty Ford Clinic, the attendants have
instructions to shoot you on sight.  With this
letter please find attached warrant for your
arrest.

Cordially,

Boehner, Dick Weiner

Blissful Vagabond

blissful vagabond1

There has always been a vast difference between the sum of us and the minute majority minority group aptly named, vagabonds.

vagabond

[vaguh-bond] 

Spell Syllables

  • Synonyms
  • Examples
  • Word Origin

adjective

1.

wandering from place to place without any settled home; nomadic:

a vagabond tribe.

2.

leading an unsettled or carefree life.

3.

disreputable; worthless; shiftless.

4.

of, relating to, or characteristic of a vagabond:

vagabond habits.

5.

having an uncertain or irregular course or direction:

a vagabond voyage.

##

I had the privilege of growing up in an era without phones that attached to the hip or ear or back pocket. My phone was built of empty B and M bean tin cans and string that had been stolen from my brother’s shoes.

Alas, the simple life, ain’t so simple. How often have we heard of snippets/books such as, How to become Rich, How to be a millionaire, Why not be a real estate mogul in three easy steps?

How often has anyone yelled from a broken and abandoned building housing nomads, people living the simple life:

Enter in here and you will learn how to be poor!

Once upon a time, I made enough money to make myself look important without being humble. I also found myself, intrinsically, going nowhere fast. IT hadn’t been that my riches were not full and electric and fancy and top of the line. IT had been that my soul had been admonished with attachments that were nowhere near what my heart desired most.

Course, not being bright or quick to learn, I discovered ‘self’ the hard way with repeated attempts at ignoring the obvious. The donut had been my life and my soul had been the hole. It took two fires, and hopefully it ends at that, to awaken my ignorantly imagined infinitely blissful psyche. As with blissful vagabond 2

most house fires, on both occasions, we had lost what I had assumed was the root of Ruth. Trophies spouting off how wonderful am I, top of the line lesbian wardrobe, a tell tale sign of my physical attributes and assorted vanity items. Note the word, vanity!

After my Higher Power’s second attempt at comedy, the house that Ruth built burning slowly to the ground, I gave up. A surrender of sorts. A fall to the knees in an open corn field. Head to the turbulent sky. Eyes fixed on spirituality’s revelations not mankind or womankind’s justification. I had heard, through the grapevine, that one knows when they have had too much. Internally we are all aware of rock bottoms personal vendetta.

All that has been written is truth. Yet, as I have said, I am a slow and not too steady learner. There are still on and off again moments where I just have to have that third Tablet/Kindle just in case the other two die. Or, times where I say to self, oh, it’s only a dollar. Three or four solar-powered plastic flowers the move via the light won’t hurt anybody.

My family is dysfunction with a capital D. My kin should have a mascot decorated with kitchen knives, bad karma and a scary clown head. They are what they are. And, it takes what it takes.

This time, it took ‘family in crisis’ to snap me to! Not that I had been out purchasing large lots of land and/or placing bets at the local Bingo Hall. But the ‘simple’ life had slowly started its downward descent into bargain basement shopping for the act of pleasuring one’s self with unnecessary plastic objects.

What I saw…when I again, saw the light? Aging parents that had done the best they could with what they were given via their own upbringing. And, I stand here today to tell you, they were given a bag of coal and flour and told to make the most of life with ‘the same shit’ their parents were given. On and on, and on and on, goes the vicious cycle of dysfunctional families.

Oh, physician heal thy self. Or, in this particular case, Zen Buddhist writer and fool, look what you’ve done now! I cannot begin to describe the night terrors. The slumbering sweat I awoke in. And/or the court jester-ing fool I witnessed in the morning mirror.

By slowly avoiding what it takes to ‘keep it simple‘. Which by the way is a hard and repetitive, daily journey into self. By masking myself in society’s masking tape. I forgot the following basic human and humble rules.

Who am I to judge? Judgment or mindfulness? Clinging to attachments can cloud and dilute the truth we all seek. How is it I came out so wonderful? If my parents were such mongers?

Living simply is not for the faint of heart. First step is in realizing that just by breathing, in today’s material world, you will be charged. Second step, going out of the house costs! Be aware that

the moment you step foot out the door; mileage, food, sun, parks and recreation, tagging the dogs, rabies shots and again, stepping out…costs money!blissful vagabond 3

To keep life at a minimum as far as expenditures to the masses, one should always start their journey with a fair to moderate idea of the ‘impact’ walking out the door will have. Life costs everyone. Yet, with education, it can have less impact on those with little means but large dreams.

To me, a vagabond for this century, is more likely free footed with structure.  Not a desperado with lackluster morals.  A vagabond for the current age, moves slightly through their places of the heart…leaving little and absorbing much.

Through the two house fires I have managed to keep three small trinkets of little money value. They are no bigger than an inch tall Snoopy action figures. By action I mean, Snoopy is blowing out birthday candles or napping on his dog house. The figurines were a gift from my father. At the time, his gestures had been in the form of verbal abuse and not typically, heart-felt items bought without premeditated goodness. Times were never filled with Norman Rockwell images of family bliss. My childhood consisted of the wanting to be a ghost. Not seen and not heard. Therefore, the idea of my angered by DNA and childhood poverty, father, giving me something so nonchalant, left and still leaves me…

BREATHLESS and WANTING TO KEEP THINGS SIMPLE