I have always enjoyed life more if my neighbors and I become friends. I enjoy life more if my neighbors and I share common likes and dislikes - share enough to become friends, become friends not because of proximity but because of commonality - the way a person should pick their friends. The fact that you see each other daily and basically share the same air only bolsters the intimacy of this primitive and tribal circumstance.
I am happy to report to you that after 25 years of tenants in the rental property next door to my very spatial, special and spectacular house in Riverside (The Paris of Jacksonville) After 25 years of renters ranging from Pentecostal Holiness bathed in the blood - speaking in tongues Pentecostal Holiness who wouldn’t give me the time of day to Gay All Night Rave-on Party clowns who wished they could give me and/or the beautiful Kath-a-leen a lot more than the time. After this 25 year old cavalcade of miscreants, misanthropes and malcontents I am happy to report that I am finally able to enjoy my life a little bit more, for I now have a friend who lives next-door.
Andrew Milton was born in England - the home of Shakespeare, the Beatles, and Fish and Chips., As a matter of fact Andrew once had the Beatles over to a backyard party where John Lennon quoted the Bard while Paul rode into town and picked up Fish and Chips, enough for everyone except Ringo. See, Andrew, whose name is a lot like mine only longer and harder to spell, would get all of these jokes, the number one requirement I look for in a friend. I don’t care who they voted for - which god they worship - how much money they make - where they are from or were they are going - I don’t care what color they are or if they wear boxers or briefs, my friends must get my jokes, this is very important to me - as important as Jello.
Andrew never met the non-parknsons Andy, but I feel he somehow is able to use some form of internal vision time machine matrix. After all Dr. Who is from England where everything is the same except all is just a little bit smaller and the taxicabs are black. Andrew can see past my distorted facial expressions, he can see past my inability to talk and be understood, he is like that weird seemingly intelligent ball like thing that chased that poor spy down every time he tried to escape from that British Government psyco-prison. It seems as if Andrew has known me all my life and refuses to let me escape from a pre-parkinons, life is but a funny dream, Andy, to a post diagnosis, serious as a 12 hour brain surgery, moan and groan Andy.
Andrew especially likes to pop up out of he water when he hears me try to say a word and instead that word itself pops up in his mind completely different and out of context - exactly the same but with a markedly dissimilar size and color. He relishes these tidbits of confusion, these pockets of misunderstanding. He writes them down, saved for prosperity. Sky Pizza is one of these lexiconic playtoys. He was over one evening back when I first started working on the Garden of Colors and asked of the whereabouts of our roommate Nancy-Laurel Pettersen. I said, in my best lost in the big city voice, that she was up in her room on a Skype conference call. This turned into an unlikely Nancy-Laurel enjoying, in privacy of her bedroom an unobtainable delicacy known simply as SKY PIZZA.
Yes VIrginia there is a SKY PIZZA, just as there are Russians in with my paint brushes, and cows in my Grandmothers Motel. There are all of these things and more - all out of thin air - all out of context and all just as difficult for me to say - speak - articulate - ruminate - enunciate. Andy and Andrew don’t care - we can see it’s only deep fried fish and french fries rapped up in newspaper and sold in town, it’s only a press conference by the Fab Four where we find America by turning left at Iceland, it’s only a Shakespeare play where the ”Nothing”, in much ado about same, means something complete in its disnothingness. It’s alright by me - this is alright because for the first time in 25 years I am finally able to enjoy my life a little bit more, for I now have a friend who lives next-door.
just say yes!
meet Andy Ward King, a professional musician and artist until a diagnosis of parkinons dsease at age 49 forced him into an early retirement., he now uses his music, his art along with the whimsical world he has created in this blog as therapy to ( as he puts it ) outsmart his brain and make the daily battles with parkinson’s a little bit easier, to give him that all important reason to get up on the morning, to make his life worth living. Andy has learned how to say NO to gving up \ NO to depression and apathy \ NO to following willingly the road of decline that stretches before him. he learned that to say no to all of these things all one has to do is say yes. Andy has learned to just say YES to life/\\