Once upon a midnight mango, whilst my parents did the tango
a dark cloud hung low over the ground
and in this cloud
this dreary cloud
brew a storm of madness that was the opposite of hope
and nobody knew this but me.
They should have seen it coming, but they didn’t
because they were too busy dancing, too busy eating caviar and french pate’.
Coulda shoulda woulda, so it goes.
A nomad moves around from place to place in order to find food. They pick up and move in order to find a better place to live. It never ends. They wander around endlessly, because they have no one place that feeds them.
I , too, am a nomad. Every time I meet new friends and learn the patterns and routines of the world around me, it’s time for me to go. My neighbors are all nomads. They don’t want to waste their money fixing up a place that they they won’t have forever. So they spend their money on things to pass the time away like french fries and plastic bobble head dash board jesuses. It’s a pointless miserable existance, unless you’re saved. Oh yeah, if you happen to be a Christian, you have death to look forward to because it’s a party every day in Heaven, so it goes. Who cares if the earth is no more than a desolate waste land. This earthly life is meant for nothing more than suffering. I have been told that if you suffer on earth, you will die and have paradise in heaven. “Come unto me, ye who are weary, and I shall give you rest.” That is the masochistic cry of many that I have met in my lifetime as a nomad.
The worst part about being a nomad, though, isn’t letting go of all the people. I really can’t stand people. They’re all the same. The faces and names change, but, in every neigborhood there is always that manic depressive control freak neighbor who always tries to make friends with me first.
The worst part about having to be a nomad is having to leave behind the fruit trees that I’ve planted. I have planted one in every place that I’ve ever lived. Perhaps, to pass something on to someone who will appreciate it, but more likely than not, they have all been chopped down by some pretentious tit who thought that they were nothing more than an eyesore.
And so here am I with my portable nomadic garden, wasting time in my eternal purgatory.
The dream is to buy back the land my parents lost. That land would have been mine, and I would be swinging in a hammock right now, with sweet juicy mango pulp oozing down my chin and all over my fingers, had it not been for my mother. Was it ignorance that she lost the land? Perhaps. I guess you could say that. She lost it all one night in a black jack game. Had she taken a few classes on black jack at the local community college or read a few books on the subject, maybe she wouldn’t have lost the land that cold and stormy evening. Of course, I thought everyone knew that if you gambled, you always end up loosing in the end. Coulda shoulda woulda, so it goes.
So here I am sitting, hoping, wishing, praying, that one day, I will be able to have the money it takes to buy back that land, and turn it back into what it was meant to be. But that land is now worth a fortune. It will take a lifetime to save enough money to buy it.
So since I’m stuck in purgatory. I’ll just take the small piece of land that I’ve got, and turn it into my own personal miniature paradise.
Is the story true? if there is no truth to my story, then what’s the point in telling it? And why do I feel that it must be told?
Whether it’s true or not, it grabbed my attention and I’m so glad I read it as soon as it flew into my inbox. It’s been a difficult day for me. Some good things, some really bad things. Thank you for this fantastical distraction.
Awesome!!
Real nomads don’t mess around. Many of us are civilized nomads, looking for the flow of experience and newness.
Is there a quest in your life? Something that makes it all worth living?
Knowledge, and some love along the way. I hesitate to say that there’s one thing that makes it all worth living, because there are many things.
I think you have a great space to create something beautiful! Thank you for the laugh though.
Shall we call you “Clotilda Appleseed”?
very cute. How bout clotilda mangopip
Better. Sounds more wholesome and jamaican.
I am rooting for you – to land someplace where your unique talents can come to fruit
Hey thanks, I need a cheerleader.
My favorite line is about the “pretentious tit.” I don’t believe I’ve heard that one before, but I should hardly reduce this excellent writing down to one witty sentence. Very good read. Thanks!
Thanks. I suppose I’ve just been reading too much classic british literature for my own good. The Tex mex brit fusion is maddening at times.
I could be that “manic-depressive control freak” of whom you speak. For me, it is the people I miss in this nomadic American life. Thanks so much for your poem and story. I thought of you this morning when I cooked Hoppin’ John again.;-)
Lovely. I enjoy the art in your posts.
Alice
…a story worth telling, regardless.
Indeed, darling, indeed, thank you for your kindness, my good gentleman.
My orange tree is fruiting. It is only some 12 feet high and twelve feet wide,
but if it rains heavily at just the right time, it yealds over 300 grapfruit size
oranges. I used to get sick in the winter. Now that I live in this house I never
do. That rush to finnish the oranges before they can go to waste, to give
them away – has become a tradition. I often encounter a worm infested
fruit, and happily leave it under the tree for the bugs – after all – there is
enough of them. The man we bought the house from loved that tree too.
Because of it, he added 3,000 dollars to the price. It is so hard to get a
tree started, I have only tried to plant fruit trees, but once they establish
themselves, there is nothing more prolific.
I would never cut down a fruit tree, it’s just plane wasting tons of free
food.
I think the way you write is deeply interesting – and your choice of images
is intrigeing too. How is your book comming? Are are you still working on it?
Is there another novel in the making I may look into?
Actually, I’ve had this story about the mango plantation in my head for years now, and I have never been able to figure out a way to tell it. So, I decided to turn it into my own story in a metaphoric way. Some parts of my own life are far too horrible for some people to read, so I thought I’d explain the whole thing in metaphors. It’s my husband, actually that was to inherit a big piece of land from his grandparents, but his own mother sold it and gambled the whole thing away at the casinos. The land would be well worth over two million dollars today. There is another piece of land that could possibly become my husbands, but due to greed, and bad money management, that too shall soon be gambled away before the next decade is up. My husband has had a lifelong dream of buying the land back and growing a food forest, like the ones we’ve seen in documentaries.
It’s a maddening dream, and it’s almost, well, an obsession. I am going to paint a picture of what a real quest for the impossible is like, because my situation is based on a lifetime of crazy encounters with the most psychotic people on the planet, and one just can’t explain things like me in just one sentence or just one story.
Oranges won’t grow where I live, and that’s too bad, because I sure do love orange marmalade. I once visited a town in California called Chico, and there were orange trees lining the streets and oranges were all over the ground, they were just everywhere. The table in the house was filled with a bowl of the most delicious apricots that I had ever eaten and when I was 18, I had never eaten a piece of fresh fruit in my entire life. It was amazing, it was like being on another planet. Because I didn’t know that fruit grew on trees.
I think it’s awesome that you would never cut down a fruit tree. I hope that the fruit trees that I have planted all end up with good owners like you.
Thanks Jam cracker. It truly must be maddening to
see things so unappriciated by the people in charge
of them. I’ve always liked avacados but I may live in
the wroung place.
there are people out there who will share your laughter. and perhaps that one oasis is lost, but another can become a haven to a nomad.
yes, you are absolutely right. Thanks for the motivation. and that is a lovely bicycle that you have. Can I borrow it?
ahhh…. you have discovered my miserly weakness. I cannot let you ride my beloved bikes, but you can drive my car, or I can help you pick out a nice bike with streamers and a fine rack for riding to the store and back. ( smile )
i don’t know…. i tell stories all the time because they pop in my head and must come out… that’s what storytellers do… but if it’s true how do you save money if you’re constantly moving… wouldn’t it be cheaper to stay in one place? and i hate moving… done it too much and i hope to stay where i am for the rest of my life… also i liked your poem…
You know, I was just thinking that myself. Moving is very expensive. I tell you why it happened, but, it’s a long story.
Hey, I got time…
You are absolutely the most lovable oddball wacky writer of all time – and thanks for being so!
Wow. Knock me down and call me sandy. Gee whiz. Thanks.
As a former military brat, I’m an expert at being a nomad
It’s funny, because I’ve actually lived roughly in the same area for more than ten years, yet my past as a kid moving around still keeps me in the default mindset that I might have to leave at any moment. Half my stuff is always packed up and ready to go at all times.
It’s kind of weird to people who have never lived that lifestyle, but for me, it’s kind of become normal.
I’ve been there and done that too…who knows…did you by any chance, knock down my igloo during a snowball war, because you really look familiar.
Ah! Amid the nomad. Nice piece! It took me to a different dimension and showed me that normal people really do exist.
Explain normal though? Hmm. Which dimension are you living in?
Normal the nomad story, for this is or similar to most people’s scenario, living to and from, meeting people who will come and go, and recovering one’s personal property. In terms of dimension, I was vicariously taken to your interpretation of purgatory.
Normal the nomad story, for this is or similar to most people’s scenario, living to and from, meeting people who will come and go, and recovering one’s personal property. In terms of dimension, I was vicariously taken to your interpretation of purgatory.
Did not mean to make two post; I didn’t realize the first comment posted as anonymous.
“The faces and names change, but, in every neigborhood there is always that manic depressive control freak neighbor who always tries to make friends with me first.” This is why I try and keep it on a no name basis with my neighbors.
don’t even get me started on that one. Let me tell you….
Once again.. you sure said a lot in just a few words.
(It’s really good to have you back, with regular postings!)
Would you like regular or unleaded?
Caffeinated, please.
All stories must be told, true or not. Ask james frey, augusten burroughs, and jt leroy…
Okay, I’ve never heard of any of those people, but they have awesome names and now you have to explain.
I’m~half asleep in frog pajamas
That is so poetic. I hear a song coming on.
that’s a Tom Robbins title-he’s a GREAT write-I think you would like him….your post reminded me of a character in that book-that’s a compliment-to you.
They call our parent’s generation ‘The Greatest’ – I think that’s a load of crap. They are turning out to have been the most narcissistic, entitled, abusive generation I’ve heard of. I hope someday you get your land back. And I love what you’re doing in the now.
Amen, sister! Oh sure, perhaps, I’m sure that there is a small handful of people in my parents generation that are wise. I’ve seen them, and spoken to them, years ago, but they are, in fact, few and far between. Perhaps it is generation X that can learn from their mistakes, and become the wisest generation of all.
Very nice. Pleasant
Sometimes a story needs to be told regardles of any truth it may or may not hold.
I have heard that there is more truth in fiction that one would think. All the knowledge of the world is told in stories and parables, for it is only through tales of real events that one can really see one’s self.
it’s a very worthy goal to work towards, i think, somewhere to plant not just trees but yourself.
i’m also waiting for a place that is just my own.
Are you hoping to move to your foreverhouse?
Are you being held hostage by a past connection to a particular piece of land? Perhaps now, in the midst of a downturn, you could re-tune that dream with a new piece of land and a new vision.
Ah yes, indeed. What good advice.
always entertaining, Ms Appleseedjamcrackernomad
Nice story
God, you are drawing on your site are so damn nice. Really a good work. I wished i was able to see it live and watch the way you do it. Just Awesome. Have a great day.
What a lovely and a beautiful rhyming and words are there! I like it
Anyway, thanks a lot for liking my post
I enjoy your blog. It is possible to live within your means and still have all you need. I grew up in a family that lived that way and is still in the same house 54 years later after moving two years before that from across the street. As a child, I worked in the family business and also had to do chores at home. I am thankful I did. I also take my plants everywhere with me. I am planning a future blog on a plant given to me by my grandparents and has been with me over 38 years. Keep on writing and saving…you will be rewarded.
I enjoyed your post. You never know when your dreams might just become real. I haven’t won lotto yet but we did win the Christmas hamper at the kids school and that included a huge ham, which has more than fed us over the Christmas season. It’s been very convenient…just slicing off what we need each day, without having to go to the shops. I’ve even put some in the freezer. Sometimes just the smallest things can be a blessing!
I enjoyed the story, true or false. Perhaps, it is a story from your ancestral memories?
Scott
Your story reminds me very much of my own story. I used to speak of myself as a nomad, with no place to stay. I couldn’t settle down anywhere. I thought that being a nomad is the way for me to live, I sympathized with nomadic cultures. I hitchhiked a lot, I went to a circus school, and I had a plan to buy a car and get together a little troupe of circus artists/musicians to go around with me, visit small communities, give them something, create something with them and move on. I actually idolized that way of living too, even though it was born out of an unfulfilling, and unfulfilled way to relate to others, and a broken heart.
I felt very alienated from the people around me. I felt like a misfit, and a crazy lady, with head full of poetry and madness. And at the same time I had very negative judgments on others. I hated a lot of things, and a lot of ways people are. And I also often remembered a saying I heard from one of my nomadic friends, “My home is where my heart is.”
I felt homeless, and nomadic, because I didn’t give my heart to anyone to have. How could I have home on Earth then? When finally I met a friend who really gave me his heart, and I wanted to give it back, I realized I have home! And I realized even more: in my nomadic lifestyle I made it impossible to have home. I was too negative, too judgmental, too opinionated, too separate, too prideful. When I finally started caring about someone enough to face THAT, it was a shocker, but it also made me see that fulfillment, homeness, togetherness, love IS possible. There can be richness, beauty, joy, sweetness, right here on earth. And it is up to us whether we are willing to do what it takes to make that work. It depends on our own willingness to love, to give oneself to someone, to not be destructive, to bend and flex for the benefit of the others, to repudiate of those parts of our way of thinking that are destructive, and that stand in the way of love and togetherness.
Pardon me, if I’m being too strong wanting to convey that. I just wanted to let you know that there are other options, and that this world doesn’t need to be a purgatory. It could be more like Heaven – maybe not like in the Christian myths with wings and trumpets – but true, full of love, reality, humanity, and the beauty that comes from the gardens of our souls. We’ve got it all, buried in the trash, but still accessible. If we listen to our hearts, they are yearning for it, and not willing to wait till death for the fulfillment of those dreams.