[sleep deprieved and painstakingly unedited]

Inertia

I woke up noon yesterday.

I watched Marty and Darryl get drunk on stage (and beforehand).

Now its 10:53 on Saturday morning and almost five hours since we left on the way to Daytona Beach.

We watched daybreak over the interstate and we watched the sun rise over a beach that is slowly starting to flood with Floridians and their visitors. Where else can you drive on the beach (watch out! for the excited little girl not looking both she only wants to catch up on the way to the waves)?

Other places, I'm sure, but I've never been there.

The sun is safe behind cumulus? (fluffy wispy layered, some with thundercloud bottoms) clouds, from my sleepless distaste for it, and a pleasant cover it is. Some morning colors begin to pale and others brighten up and say hello to that girl looking out the car window again

--families on four wheelers skid in the sand--

I should be driving and not writing but I am tried and my brother is content with cruising down the beach at 10 miles an hour instead of a real road (and my lord, he pauses at Led Zepplin, and then Rush, but then, just to mess with me, he pauses on really bad religious music, then some latin music and then Van Halen with David Lee Roth no less. Seems he finally decides on some older Metallica. Weird, but not bad.)

Where the fuck was I?

He is conten to cruise down the beach.. instead of a real road not giving a damn about the poetic principles of the giving yet horrendously cruel sun-- as long as it continues to glint off the female flesh so scantilly clad and so strategically placed every seven square feet. Yes. Seven square feet. cubic, even? No. That's too difficult.

I'd ask what I was on about but I'm on about but I'm just trying to stay awake.

My brother is content to cruise down the beach at 10 miles an hour, and I am content to let him.

We are in Daytona at 11:15am and we are going to see Great Aunt Ethel before she is planted into the watery Florida earth... someday, possibly thousands or millions of years, I suspect she'll be under the Floridian Sea (or whatever they decide to call it). Seems like a nice idea.

I'll put my brother there. Tricky fucker just pulled on the road. Damn right you pull over.

Drive.

3:23 in Daytona and he's on the road. Looking for a clean white shirt so he can get out of the car. He's at a beach wear store and I bet he'll be out in five minutes- with nothing. And we'll have to go on to the "mainland" to get him a damned shirt and at that point we might as well just go home? Can we? Then you'd both be asleep. Matt figured out his tshirt situation. So he's happy. And he's subtly trying to make me happy. "Are you sure that's what you want?" "I can go another place, if you want." Of course you will. you're driving, silly boy.

SO we will see how my mood changes as soon as we get on the beach. Seeing if the sun comes out. If I decide to go swimming. Lordy lordy. The funeral put me in a bad mood. Frankly, it pissed me off. From the moment I walked in. The color scheme beige taupe light pale brown not quite pastel, but unoffensive pinks and greens. It was hideous. The music was of the sad fuck country variety. Things about God's love and sad goodbyes and an open casket (my dad was surprised by it for some reason) and Ethel was dressed in blue in a rose silver casket (my brother thought I was stupid thinking it was a waste- being returned to the earth and all)

She didn't look happy. She didn't look at peace. She looked bloated and four days dead and faintly dissatisfied but smiling polietly cause everyone was watching. And I slowly was bothered more + more by it. By the time the funeral director started, I already wanted to punch him. This is not personal in the name of Ethel- I didn't know her. The whole ceremony was goddamned stupid. It was impersonal (Ethel loved... stitching? Her beadwork was.. lovely?) it was trying (the funeral director stuttered and called Ellie "Mrs. Turner" and had to look on several pages of notes for simple information) it was just fucking trite and lame and from what I hear about Ethel, she deserved much better.

Storm is rolling in. Weak Jack Daniels Coolers are rolling in my belly. Well, just one. And looks like we'll be heading home. No high wave swimming for me. If only it hadn't taken us an hour to find the Goddamned funeral home.

No sun. Stupid storm. Alcohol though! wahoo. Like I fucking care about that.

Hopefully I'll be home by eight. If I'm lucky. I need a shower. And some Nick. And then maybe sleep. And definetly a Sunday or two.

Tired of waiting for driving
tired of writing
stupid ashes on my dress
fucking shit
I can't write a straight
line stupid sand
4:11