Bitterness is a distance your expectation falls down to reality.

        I quit my wife.  I divorce my job.

        I file early retirement.

        I take cheap flight to San Jose, Costa Rica (my father is Macedonian but my mother come from Costa Rica as little girl and my family goes back one time there when I was a happy ten years old).

        I take bus to Playa Chiquita in Puerto Viejo Talamanca (that translates “Little Girl Beach” in “Old Port” and “Talamanca” is word for language of native Carib people of Costa Rica).

        I choose Costa Rica to finish my worthless days.  I have trance willpower that comes only when nothing matters anymore.

        I arrive with only what I put in my old back-pack.

        I hike around until I find hidden cove I remember finding as kid, where jungle stream meets beach.

        It is not touched.

        I find shade.  I put up tent.  I set-up water-purifier.  I set up solar battery charger.

        I go down to edge of soft dry sand and I sit down, close my eyes, and I listen to the ocean breathe, feeling weight of sunshine.



        Old reflexes come and go.  My mind twitches.

        I want cigar.

        I feel echoes nagging “get busy”.

        My thoughts become like shining decorations behind my eyes.

        I am seeing my thinking:  all this, everything, will one day, too soon no matter when, not be here for me.  One day too soon no matter when, I will not be here for myself.  It is the only thing we all know for sure.  I try imagine after I die.  I try imagine before I was born.

        My friend Fǎ “Bud” Ha told me when we die we are going home.

        Was I worth my life?  One day too soon, no matter when, it will not matter.

        Memories break and hiss and die on sand, to be taken away into the Caribbean, into the “great stream encircling the earth”.

        I fall asleep sitting like Buddha.

        I dream I have fallen asleep sitting like Buddha.

        I dream I wake up at my job as Union Auto Mechanic for State of California.  I wake up naked.  Workers clap.  Bud laughs, “Ha!  Nice tool!”

        I wake up and there is a puppy dog scratching himself happy beside me.  I turn still sitting like Buddha and face to him.



        I say, “Hi, little boy, how do you like this place?” and the puppy dog sits and he blinks at me.  I pet him.  He licks my hand.

        I ask him, “Do you know your name?”

        Then I hear young woman’s voice, “Chuchería!”

        I turn.  She is naked.  She comes from the ocean, sparkling wet with long dark hair.  She holds spear.  She carries pouch net full of fish.  Puppy dog runs to her, bouncing.

        She asks puppy dog, “Chuchería, you are being a good neighbor?”

        She smiles at me.  She comes closer.  She asks me, “You buy fish?” and she holds up her pouch net of fish.

        I smile and I say, “My kitchen is not built yet.”

        She says very quick, “You buy fish.  I cook in my cocinita.”

        She is standing in front of me and I am still sitting like Buddha.  I am thinking “I like her cocinita”.  Then I think I must be Buddha still dreaming.

        She walks away to jungle.  I am not Buddha dreaming.  I am Buddha rising.

        I say, “Hey, excuse me, please.  Who are you?”

        She looks back to me and she says, “Clarita.”  Then she says, “Come now, Chuchería.  Let your new friend…”

        She turns away to jungle again.  Her little dog hurries beside her.

        I say, “I am Agustino!”

        I hear her say, “I hope so.”

        Very strange.  But I’m not complaining.  My expectations have risen to new reality.  That is sweetness.








Follow This Link To My SITE



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.