Welcome to Margaritaville

Holiday weekend population at my place is 3. Apparently other households are having guests over too. Yesterday at the beach, I must have seen a dozen people. And with fallout from the demoic acid continuing, there were a dozen dead birds, two dead sea lions, and one sea lion cordoned off waiting for rescue.

It's still paradise.
But for the dead, not so much.

And we have bars in paradise. I love bars.

I especially love bars with music. The night before last we went to see one of my favorite musicians at a beach neighborhood bar so tiny it appears to have been built in someone's garage. A guy we  dubbed "the tornado" blew in about half-way through our evening. He entered as if he was wearing those shoes with retractable wheels you see adolescents gliding around in. He danced his way to the dance floor after a quick word with the bartender. The next thing you know, everyone in the bar had a fresh drink. The Tornado danced. The Tornado knuckle-bumped quite a few of us. And then he blew out again.

This morning he was at the farmer's market looking fresh as a daisy.

So I'm back, enjoying life in Margaritaville.

But not that long ago I was here:

Always aware of the canyons in my heart.
How are you?

State of the State of Margaritaville

Evening walk last week.

I'm alive and I live in paradise.

For more than a year I've been wrestling.
Swollen joints.(They went away; yesterday the swollen knees and ankles came back) A hoarse voice.
Grief.
Musing over  Dan's central tenet. You're doing the best that you can. Really, you did the best that you could at the time. Really really, you did the best that you could at the time with what you knew at the time.
Really?

I am alive and I live in paradise.

My voice is unreliable. Is that the same as an unreliable narrator?

Why am I not working on a writing project right now?

Some days I can barely make myself understood. In places that I go regularly, people know to lean closer. Other days I clear my throat a million times. The phlegm lady.

Yes, I've been to doctors.
Hooray, I'll be on Medicare in November.

The lungs are the seat of grief, the acupuncturist says. Okay.

The Integrated Medicine doc says no dairy and gluten. Sometimes I cheat on the dairy.

What do you do with grief when you're grieving over a dead person while taking care of a dying person?
Wow, wasn't that like, a long time ago?

No.
I am alive and I live in paradise.

Paradise itself is struggling.

Starting in the lower right foreground, notice the white bumps, and follow them into the distance. These are the breasts of western grebes, poisoned by domoic acid. The Pacific loons, cormorants, and pelicans are darker and cannot be distinguished in the photograph.

The beach, early morning, after the winds have subsided.