unknown date

 Dried mud and a memories ache, the looming glow of a luminescent screen.  tippity-tap and what the fuck was that?  I think I'll play guitar tonight.

Stream of consciousness project

 The holidays came and went.  I did what I have always done.  I tunred my back on those who actually cared, proved after long years of turning my back and isolation.  you know.  thoswe real friends, who put up with your shit no matter what and you put up with theres.  struggling to make ends meet, imperfections, 40 cats and and all, love beneath it all.  yeah.  i did that.  I turned my back once again, for a man I barely met on tinder.  it seemed the most feesible, reasonable option at the time.  safer hygenically for my unbordn child though economically, and in the long list of pros and cons, unknown and completely reckless. yeah, i really fucked that risk assemsment.  I was lucky at first.  Litlle bit of light gaslightting and genuine deire for care beneath a controlling, parnanoid, projective ntuere.  god did my pregnant ass try to cater to his needs.  and I guess what he'd say is he put up with the needs of my situation.  He did.  His heart was inthe right place.  I will stand by that.  And though I may not have loved him, i loved who he was, his quirks and manerisms and imperfections.  I have a soft spot for the unique, and off beat and strange.  We got the horse back together, with not a few tears and harse words, some desereved some i will even admit were not.  my body and my mind and the child growing within me pressed on, delirious in and out of hospitals, weak, afrraid.  we made it.  We got the horse back together, i mentioned that right? we had as many laughs as he drew my tears. I proved I was stronger than i ever realized I was. Then as the child grew and my own phrame shrank, it fell apart, in accusations, and self blame.  isnt that how all toxic relationships go.  31, i should have known right away,and i did just barely a moment late.  We escaped.  I rose once again.  A new home, a new life, and new struggle to define myself by.  It was never okay, nothing but the beautiful child was ever okay.  but we survived, and in the end I found something that had that had floated in without my notice, and had needed for far longer than I care to admit.  It is amazing the power of a single friend in a solitary life.  Not just a firend.  the power of genuine care, and love and trust, before ones lips can form those words and breath their life into the ears of another.  That stalthy beneath the radar hidden inthe fog, no longer alone anymore, kind of feeling.  Im a fuck up through and through,  My only virues lie in a ability to will by body beyond the limits of any biological enity of my stature, and dogged obsession for the preservation and welfare of those my insanity decalres to love.  But i must have lucked out again.  I say that.  I hope.  does one fell swoop negatie it all?  I dont think it does. But lesson three ive learned now, It doesn tmatter worrying about that because it doesnt matter hwat happens to me anymore.  just as long as the kid smiles and thrives.  and you know what?  she fucking does.  more than i could have ever hope and dreamed.  The holiidays came and went.  I did so many things wrong I cant couldnt them anymore, but you know what?  I still here, adn she smiles like a million suns.  So i guess somehow  did so something fucking right.  The holidays came ad went, TWICE.  Ill get to filling the gaps I am purposely skipping tongiht. AS fot this moment, It feels good to let my fingers rant to the ethers.  It feels good, to begin again.

The Captain and the Obsequito - IV - He will be returned

 I ended the call and instinctually reached for the nearest thing to me as I felt my knees begin to crumple beneath me: slow, like a falling brown paper bag.  I landed gently and neatly, folded into a little half crouch on the motel carpet, my left arm still outstretched with the cellphone flung beside it and gripping the edge of the mattress behind me.  As the sobs began to shudder through me, I pressed my thin shoulders against the bedframe and held my small swollen belly with both hands as I shook.  Pain poured from me, flooding rivulets from my tears, my breath, my sweat, melting and fading and dissipating into the stale air of the warm little room like smoke, or the fleeting shreds of one of my many bad dreams.  Fear.  Longing.  Heartbreak.  Worry.  Guilt.  All buried and bottled up for so long beneath my fresh acne, and tired brave face.  I did it. I might have thought.  We're going to be okay.  We're all going to be together. Mi familia.  Mi cebollita.  Contigo, siempre.  We will be happy.  We will be okay.  But those were all thoughts later, on my long walk in the misting rain and the dizzying beautiful reality with which it kissed my skin as if each droplet was to say "You did it momma, you did it.  You're a fighter, you're a family, he's going to be okay".  No, none of those thoughts could be formed yet in the motel room after the phone call.  Only two words, dripping from the emotions that were so eagerly, finally, pouring out of me at last.  Swirling in the new, so achingly waited and fought for, peace in my skull and soul.  Filling the little shapes being formed by my muttering lips, making their sound into the room on my shuddering breath.

"Gracias, Dios. Gracias, gracias, gracias, GRACIAS, gracias..."

The blind horse registered Argentetnian polo restry: Diego Rivera. would be re registered as "Full horse: name, Blind Melon AKA Diego.  Miranda Holman.

We won.

The Captain and the Osequito - III - Welcome to Georgia

 "Now I just have to take you through these questions and then get a positive test from you for our intake process.  I'm real sorry, it's just sumptin' they make us do."

I nodded my head and took a seat in one of the many chairs in the large sunny room.  The woman placed herself in a seat across from me - a healthy distance of over 6 feet - and I began to fidget nervously with my new unicorn mask that was way too big.  I cursed myself silently and made a mental note (probably for the 20th time since this damn pandemic began) that I need to start buying child-size for myself just like I do for my work clothes and PPE when I'm on the boats.  God did I miss the boats already.

"Alrighty so, we like to look at our clients profiles before they come in and just do a quick look over - so I know a little bit bout who I'm goin' be talking to - and then we start with the big things.  Now I am so sorry I must bring this up... but one thing that stuck out to me was the abuse.  Can you tell me a lil bout that?"

"Most of the rapes and assaults happened in my early twenties." I said curtly, daggers in my eyes and venom in my voice.  

The woman fidgeted uncomfortably.  

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment at myself, at my own anger that this woman had nothing to do with and in no way deserved.  Damn hormones. The woman opened her mouth to speak but I cut her off before she could ask the next question on the list, that it seemed, we both were beginning to dread.  "I was a system kid..." I said hurriedly, quietly. "... with a bad habit of running away.  The world isn't nice to a girl like that - never mind New York City - and I didn't let it go or let myself change for a long time.... That's all."

The woman nodded politely. "Now the physical, verbal and mental abuse, that occurred before Child Services - I assume it was Child Services? - Took you?"

"Yes."

"Previous pregnancies... No living children?"

"Yes, no children."

"But the miscarriages, it says here you've had 5?  When do they usually occur?"

"Between 5 and 7 weeks."

"Do you have any medical issues that you know of?"

I was tempted to roll my eyes, knowing damn well that she was looking at my "medical issues" on the iPad on her lap, but I took a little breath instead and adjusted my too-big unicorn mask - maybe more to hide my expression than protect myself from any Coronavirus that was floating around.  Cool it, Miranda. I silently reprimanded myself. Cool it you hormonal psychopath. "Yes..." I finally said.

The woman leaned back and stared at me with an encouraging expression on her face.  I sighed.

"I'm on the Autistic Spectrum." I said quickly. "And have psoriasis and PTSD."

"Medications?"

"I take Prozac and Clonazepam for the PTSD."

"Yes we were wondering about the Clonazepam-"

"-I already spoke to my doctor and had it lowered to a safe dosage as soon as I found out I was pregnant.  He said the Prozac was fine at the dosage I've been on."

"Oh good! Yes Prozac is absolutely fine, I just needed to make sure about that klonopin.  Now this doctor, where is he?"

"He's in New York City, I've been seeing him for almost ten years and he has had patients give birth on both medications successfully."

"Gosh, you are just on top of things aren't you!?" The woman exclaimed. "That is just so good."

I was starting to lose my patience, and my focus, and maybe some hope too - questions about the past do that to me.  My stomach was starting to spoil itself again and I could feel a mean fart building up.

"Let's see what's next here? You...." The woman trailed off.  I don't think I was even looking at her anymore.  I was probably looking out the window, eyes searching for a bird, even though the gauzy curtains were drawn.  Bird-watching.  Another old habit.  But that's one I've never let go of, and for the sake of hope and sanity... well I hope I never do.  The woman shifted in her seat catching my attention again.  She flipped the iPad up at her self, stared at it for a second, then smiled, shook her head, and rested it face down beneath her elbows as she leaned towards me.

"What am I doing?" She finally said.

I stared at her, confused.

"You've been through this before haven't you?" She asked, but not to me.  It felt like she was asking it to the whole sunny room, the four other white christian ladies sitting behind the glass in the lobby past the walls and closed doors, god above even.  She pushed back a strand of long brown hair that had fallen from behind her ear and continued. "No... I know you have - I mean I have it all here, I don't need you to tell me, I already read it.  New York, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, just with this pregnancy alone!  And... this is the longest a pregnancy has ever made it for you, isn't it?"  She did not wait from my response.  "I can't imagine how tired you are, never mind the stress.  My, Lord.  And you seem no stranger to travel... or strangers asking questions."

"Yeah" I snorted with a dark little chuckle.

"Yet seem so good, so..."

"Well adjusted?" I offered.

"Yes! I like that.  I never heard that one before."

"Must be a northern thing." I shrugged, thinking of all the psychologists that prodded at my brain when I was a little kid in New York City. "They say it there all the time."

"Must be." She said staring off.  We both sat there quietly for a moment, then she looked down at her iPad again, and fell apart into a fit of giggles that doubled her to her knees before she picked her head back up suddenly, beaming at me.  "Can... Can I tell you something?" She finally gasped.

"Yeah?" I said, starting to feel a smile creep across my own face.  

"Your Baby's Father's Name." She laughed, still catching her breath.  Suddenly I realized where this was going and began smile too, that big hood-rat shit-eating grin I've still got after all these years, ear to ear. "My lord we have never, EVER, had somebody answer that question with "Shit Head" before!"  By now I was laughing too, holding my little baby belly with one hand and struggling to keep the stupid too-big mask balanced on the bridge of my nose with the other. "Why I had to call all the ladies over just to see it!" She continued. " 'Why looky here this girl said her baby-dad's name is SHIT HEAD!' Oh we laughed honey.  I've been wanting to write that for some of the girls that come in here for years... but I guess we southern girls are a little more reserved... Not that you offend us!"

"No offense taken." I said cordially, still laughing myself.

"You... you made our day!  I was going to walk in here and say 'Now mister Sheet Hee-ahd, Where is he now?' but i just couldn't do it!"

"You should-a" I replied with a mischievous grin.  All the hostility, and nervousness, and worry melted away as we sat there and laughed together - two strangers from two totally different worlds - in a big old sunny room.  She dabbed at her eyes delicately with her finger tips.  I pushed my whole palm through my short, unkempt, hair.  She was pretty.  She was thin - but healthily so - with a pale face, shinning eyes, and long brown hair.  Maybe she was a little older than me, maybe she only seemed that way because she was the one sitting in neat business clothes with an iPad on her lap, and I was the one sitting in the only clothes left that fit, with a baby in my belly who I could only be 85% sure who the father was.  I wondered what she thought of me, and then just as quickly brushed the thought away.  Who the fuck cares anymore? I thought, and the thought felt like a bird, up and flying away, in the trees I couldn't see behind the gauzy curtains.

"Oh I guess what I'm trying to say..." She finally said, laughter still glittering her words. "What I'm try to say is... oh I just don't know!"  She shook her head and giggled again.

"Well..." I said slowly, feeling all of New York in me rush to the top of my throat and brim my eyes, like a crowd to the doors of the 4, 5, 6, at rush hour - any mid town stop.  "What you're saying is, you've never had a New York City raised, female mariner walk in the doors before."  I leaned back, proud of myself.

"No!" She cried out as a fit of laughter spilled from both of us again. "No we most certainly have not!  WELCOME TO GEORGIA!!" 

I think that was the moment when I finally decided it:  I like it here.

The Captain and The Osequito - II - Luck

 II

I shuffled myself back up to the check in window with my head down, feeling defeated.  I was hoping to find the three East Indian women who originally checked me in, but instead there was a large black woman with a warm cherub face and shoulder length hair, maybe in her forties, sitting on a stool to the right of the window.

"I... I think I need to stay another night." I said softly, still looking at the ground. "And maybe... I was wondering if you have a weekly rate here?"

The woman stepped off the stool and met my knit brow with her warm face and a welcoming smile that even my quick dart of a glance could feel before my eyes fixed themselves back on the ground.  Grey concrete and pine needles.  "Well that's okay, honey." She said.  "What room are ya in?"

"105" I mumbled.  She turned around to a computer with a brightly colored chart on the screen and tapped at a few keys on the keyboard before turning back to me.

"I don't know if she started you on the weekly rate," She said gently, "but you give me a moment and I'll see if I can call her."  The woman stepped away again.  This time I couldn't see her from the tiny street window.  I fidgeted nervously with my purse and glanced across the parking lot.  Palm trees, grey concrete, pine needles.  An older looking black gentleman at the far end of the motel, next to a small barbecue grill that I smelled making dinner the night before.  The muffled voices of the patrons of the restaurant across the street.  I ate there my first night.  Appetizer sampler - the crab balls were the only thing I could get down, and a guilty glass of red wine.  "I'm sorry." the woman said, suddenly on the other side of the glass again, as if she had just glided there out of my hurt, and worry, and afternoon reverie. "I can't get a-hold of her, I'll have to charge you the same rate for now.... it's 50 dollars, you know?"

I nod silently.  We stood there both for a moment, on either sides of the glass.  I could feel her eyes on me, gentle and concerned, mine lost again in the grey concrete and pine needles, my fidgeting hands, my old steel toed boots. "You are going to pay, aren't you?" She said finally.  I nodded quickly, embarrassed this time, and fished through my purse for two twenties and a ten before changing my mind, and dragged out a hundred instead.  "Make.... make it two nights?" I said quietly, "If that's alright..." and pushed the bill under the small gap at the bottom of the window to the little ledge inside. "I don't think my luck is turning anytime soon..." I added quickly, while she gently picked up the bill and smiled at me again. 

"All I need is your key card now."

I fished it out of my purse and pushed it under the window as well.  The woman turned away again, and after a few moments reappeared. With the same small welcoming smile she placed the key card back in my hand. "And don't you worry, honey," she said. "It will."

The Captain and the Obsequito - I - Shotgun

I

 We parted ways at the end of the Rankin Bridge.  Dad turned right, towards Homestead to get pandemic rations for the cats.  I turned left, toward Georgia, to win my old blind horse back and have my first child, alone.  And then I started to cry.

Well, I guess I wasn't entirely alone at least.  I am being dramatic and blame the pregnancy with it's many complicated hormones for that.  I had Brooklyn riding shot gun, of course.  Always shotgun.  Only my good stories start that way - and though I know neither of us are eternal or immortal - I do hope that for some time more they continue to always start out this way.  Grace was behind my head in a cheap crate zip tied together from a larger cat's escape efforts that snapped all the little plastic clips some time ago.  A larger cat who used to be her housemate, with another kitten, and a little blue lobster in a fish tank, and a welder, in a home that used to be ours - or so I thought.  Funny what turns out to be conditional, when people think they are "unconditionally" in love.  Or at least, I thought we were.

The roads became ones I'd never driven before too fast.  I never leave town by turning left at the end of the Rankin Bridge.  I always turn right, to 347.  Always.  My tears blurred the autumn trees into big globs of yellow and orange hanging over freight trains and the river on either side of me, the black top like a tired grey ribbon stretched and twisting in an impossible dream before me.  Grace meowed softly, plaintively, behind my head.  Brooklyn nervously licked my trembling right hand.

"We're gon-" I stammered, choking on a sob, spitting flecks of tears that had gathered in the corners of my lips onto my left hand and the steering wheel beneath its white knuckles and brown tattooed skin. "We're gonna be okay."

Bottom paint

"Ohhh, thank you Pedro." I hum with a smile into cooling evening air and sunlight, mid May, 6pm.
 "Your welcome, Senorita." He says.  He walks away and I look down at the bottle neck still smiling, remove the napkin and plastic shot cup, take a small sip then set it down on the parking lot curb, my scraps of sandpaper ruffle and skip in the 5 knot breath of a southerly, kissing its glass bottom, my converse shoes.  The autumn leaves of a marina in spring.
I smile.  With about as much effort as the southerly's breath.  That half smile of weariness and half formed thoughts.  I hear Pedro though I cannot see him anymore, behind the two boats down where he is working tonight.  Bottom painting.  We've both been set to bottom painting for our hours of the day into these hours of the approaching night.  A can sets down on pavement with a metallic scrape, a paint roller frame spins.
"Hey, better finish soon, if rain bothers you."
I laugh. "It doesn't!" 
Pedro's reply - the scratch of the paint tray shifting on the pavement, the paint roller frames spin.  A low dissatisfied "humf".  My mind wanders.  My task rolls by like the black paint, cooling air, dimming light, time.  I see him in my thoughts my movements his reflection.  I am once again the twenty-something starting up in the yard, living the old salts memories.  The "I was you", the "wear your damn respirator! God if I listened when I was your age...." the "pay the kid, don't you remember?", the tattooed memory, blending again the lines of a timeless tradition.
Pedro finishes before me, he waits at the bow of the catamaran as I make my way forward.  I am the reflection of his movements.  I "humf" at a chip I missed sanding, I double back - my cheek millimeters from the wet paint, smooth a sag. 
He waits until I step back and we both nod satisfied. 
"Good job." he says.  I grin.  "But next time work top first, remove the tape then start the bottom."
"I remember." I say.
"Good.  Now I tell you how to bill.  You listen, this guy, he doesn't like to pay...."