Today I wrote to a friend of mine—in jest—as a third-person, omniscient narrator, that I live in a small, tropical, humble hamlet lying on the edge of the western-most edge of the Atlantic Ocean, in a place called Ponte Vedra Beach.
I’ve called this small, predominantly wealthy place my home for the past few years and this chapter is coming to a close. I have a lot of respect for this place and this county, and I have a lot of scorn and angst mixed in, and that’s why I love it here.
This evening, I decided to take advantage of a poorly unused asset of mine—my back porch.
I poured myself a glass of Jim Beam, ice to the rim with a splash of water to cut it, slit punched a cuban seed cigar, went upstairs to my room and lit up on my porch with some Johnny Cash providing soundtrack, just because I could.
I’ve lived here for a about a year and this is the first time I really sat on my back porch and took it in. I took it all in, my crappy view, the muggy weather, the beautiful western sunset, the moderate ocean breeze, the bugs, my eight neighbors’ goin-ons in their porches, my memories of this place and what I hope to be the path for my future.
I got my setup right, a cut and lit cigar, my glass of JB and a Key West ashtray (a clear plastic cup half filled with water) and I began my own personal style of meditation.
I understand that the Buddhist style of meditation centers on the inward focus on breathing as a means of reflection. I personally took a deep drag on my cigar and an even deeper drag on my Jim—condensation dripping on my bare stomach—to kick things off.
I exhaled and began my own inward journey.
In about three and a half weeks I’ll be leaving this place, and for better or for worse I’m going to miss this place. I’ve lived here as a know-nothing post-grad trying to pay rent off borrowed money from my dad and I’ve also lived here as someone with intimate knowledge of the inner workings of this small county and small society.
People like to live high profile in this place, in Ponte Vedra, because they have money and a notion of self-entitlement. And so do their offspring.
And then there are people like me, and my roommates, and my neighbors and just about everyone else that lives in this shit hole called the Fountains, quite possibly the slum village of this otherwise diamond in the fairway. We just try to pay rent, have a little something for ourselves, deal with 100-degree-plus afternoons indoors and have goals and dreams.
My dreams exist only about three years ahead of this present time, and right now, I’m on track—I think. A few days after the beginning of September the wheels of Delta flight 91 will leave the earth and I’ll be on my way to Bangkok via Seoul, South Korea.
