The Time Of Year When Winter And Spring Come Together In Lloyd

The Time Of Year When Winter And Spring Come Together In Lloyd

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Fuck Me. I Was Wrong Once Again

It is a proven fact that I don't know shit.
And no, today is NOT the solstice. It is the fall equinox.

Once again, I fail at science, religion, and truth.

Please. I beg your forgiveness.

But I know when the Hurricane Lilies are about to bloom. I know when my chickens moult. I know when it is time to plant the collards.

Still. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

I am not nearly as embarrassed as I probably should be.

The Solstice

So it's the Solstice, eh? I swear to you, it's like the weather here got an alert notice and brought it on for us. It could hardly be more beautiful.
Still, I spent most of the day inside. I watched that film again, yes I did, and then I watched all the bonus features and although I am sure none of you will ever do this, if for some reason you ever decide to, schedule an entire day. Damn. There's a lot of bonus in that bonus.

Mr. Moon is home, washing off the equipment he took with him, his clothes are in the laundry. I am feeling very glad to have him home. Oh, and I finally asked him what it is he plants for the deer and it is a mixture of wheat, oats, two sorts of peas I've never heard of, turnips and radishes. A veritable salad bar of delight. My beloved hunter-farmer.

My twelve hens laid me seven eggs today and since none of those eggs was either Eggy Tina's or Missy's, I have to assume that two of the old hens have gifted me. Missy is spending more and more time off the nest and I am glad of that. I feel so sorry for her, sitting so still with her feathers spread over her imaginary eggs for so many hours every day, neither eating or drinking or socializing or taking dirt baths. Hormones. Whether in chickens or in humans, they are powerful things.

I see that over three hundred thousand people turned out to march for climate change in NYC and I am glad of that. I am also glad to hear that world leaders are coming together on Tuesday for a United Nations climate summit.
May it all not be too little, too late. Lord have mercy but if we stupid humans could just get together for the saving of our planet instead of waging war, it could be the saving of all of us in more ways than one. I do not have any faith that that could truly happen but one never knows. Perhaps a Messiah will show up and lead the way. It would take a damn Messiah. I don't really believe in Messiahs.
Sigh.

I really have nothing more to say. I have had a beautiful, slow, easy day of it in Lloyd and the falling sun is doing that crazy beautiful light thing once again. Our planet is so fucking incredible and here I am, living this tiny life and as such, am able to spend much time observing and noting the small details of the seasons and their passing in my my minuscule part of the world. It is a small life, but for me, a rich one.

I may not believe in Messiahs but I do believe in glory and some days are just damn steeped in the light of it.

Sunday Morning At The Church Of The Batshit Crazy


That's the giant tree that split apart last year, its gashes and huge splinters a stark reminder of the event. The part of the tree which is left though, still stands strong and true, it's branches still a beautiful part of the moss-draped canopy in my back yard.


It is an almost perfect day here in Lloyd. I slept wonderfully well with no air conditioning, Maurice curled up, resting against me all night long. I say I slept well and I did except for the part where I woke up and realized that the vague feelings of stomach upset I'd had all day, increasing into the evening had come to fruition. Let me just say that I am now ready for my colonoscopy and there was no vomiting. 
I think I may have the very lightest form of whatever bug Lily had. Of course, it could just be the six hours I spent in the garden but I don't think so. I never felt fatigued or got exhausted. Tired, yes, hot and sweaty- oh my. But not heat-strokey by any means.

Well, la-di-dah, whatever it was or is, I plan on taking it pretty easy today. One thing I want to do is to watch that film, "Stones in Exile" again. It was a beautiful little film and the director, Stephen Kijack, was obviously making a love letter. It is the story of how the Stones made their album, Exile on Mainstreet, after being virtually kicked out of England. Due to manager rip-offs, incredibly high (93%) taxes by the English government, and of course, the continual harassment and arrests by the British police, the Stones were indeed exiled to France, desperately needing to make a new album. 
They ended up making that album, not in a studio, but in the basement of the house which Keith and Anita Pallenberg, the mother of his son Marlon, rented, a 19th-century Cote d' Azur mansion called Nellcote. 


Ah, I won't go into all of it but let us just say that it was an amazing time for all involved and Keith goes into a lot of detail in his autobiography. Everyone was doing drugs, all of the drugs. And yet, as an article in the Guardian from 2002 says, "In places, Exile on Mainstreet does indeed sound, in the best possible way, like an album made by a bunch of drunks and junkies who were somehow firing on all engines."

The film did not really delve too deeply into the dank basement of grit although those things weren't completely glossed over, either. And speaking of dank basements, well...here.


Upstairs may have been beautiful and huge and stately

but the basement was hot and so humid that guitars constantly went out of tune and it must have been almost unbearable at times. As Keith said, "Upstairs it was fantastic- Like Versailles- But downstairs, it was like Dante's inferno."


(Bobby Keys who still plays with the Stones.)

Something that really struck me about the film was how much it reminded me of certain aspects of the music scene in Tallahassee at about the same time. Of course, on a much less intense scale, but I remember musicians whose houses were the center of operation, where people came and went and yes, did drugs but  let me be clear- to this day I've never seen heroin in my life- and there were kids running around everywhere and food being made and eaten all the time and at the very center and core and heart of it all, was the music. Always. It was a tribal time. An incredibly creative time. Songs were being written, musicians sat in large or small circles playing, children danced in fancy costumes of their own making, I was often in the kitchen, cooking and baking, we all did our part somehow. 

One of the things about the film which was highly disappointing to me was the very absence of Gram Parsons who played a huge role in Keith Richards' life and in the songs that were written and recorded at Nellcote. I'm not sure why this omission occurs unless it is because Mick Jagger had a lot to do with the film. Keith, in his autobiography, says flat plain out that Mick was jealous of the bond between Keith and Gram which was a most intense one.



They shared everything from a deep love of similar music to heroin. Quite frankly, to me, the songs on Exile on Mainstreet sound far more Richards and Parsons than they do Jagger. 

Here's one called "Loving Cup."




If you know the music of Gram Parsons, I think you'll agree.

I love that video and also this one which is of a song called "Happy" which Richards definitely wrote.



The contrast between Mick's preening made-up face, his tight little swinging, swishing ass and Keith's missing teeth says it all.

At one part in the film, Keith says something like, "I just wanted to raise my family and make music." I think the whole fame part confused and baffled and frustrated him except for the way it made it possible for him to play the sort of music he wanted with the people he wanted.

From the Guardian article:

"Mick needs to know what he's going to do tomorrow," says Richards, his voice slurring into a laugh. "Me, I'm just happy to wake up and see who's hanging around. Mick's rock, I'm roll."

Well, that's enough. I realize I'm a freaking Richards disciple. Oh well. It could be worse. I could be one of those people who is obsessed with Sarah Palin or FSU football or the Nazis.
But no, I'm just a woman who lives in Lloyd, Florida and who has grandchildren and who has always loved music which has, at times, literally saved her life and for whom Keith Richards is some sort of totem who represents survival via music and love despite all odds.

Here's another picture from my yard this morning.


Beauty Berry. 

I guess this has been my Sunday devotional. 

Amen, y'all. 

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. All black and white photos of the Stones and Nellcote by Dominique Tarle whose photos from that time period are amazing. You should check them out.

P.P.S. Don't get me wrong. I love Mick Jagger too. 

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Saturday Night And All Is Quite Well

Fall has been flirting with us for a few weeks now and today I think she may have actually hooked her fingertips into the elastic of her panties and is getting ready to slip them off. Or least let her bra straps drift downwards. We have a little bit more of a true idea what she's been offering.

I've worked almost all afternoon in the garden and whenever the sun went behind clouds, the chickens joined me to happily peck at bugs and seeds. Today I learned for the first time that chickens really do not like to scratch in direct sunlight, a fact which only makes me believe more in their intelligence. We got one fast hard rain shower which lasted less than twenty minutes but cooled things off a little more. I took a break to be nosy at one point, wondering what in hell was being cut next door with a chain saw. There is still no one living there and I had a huge fear that they might be taking down a live oak but no, it was two guys who were cutting up a tree which had fallen on the fence. I'd heard it fall last week but couldn't find anything down in my yard and didn't investigate further. Turns out the tree was, legally in my yard though, at the edge of the bamboo jungle. I think it was a small water oak. I asked the guys if they knew who owns the house now.
"A bank," one of them said. "Otherwise we wouldn't be here." I guess they work for banks doing just this sort of thing on foreclosed homes. They had no idea which bank though and we all agreed that it was sad that it was empty. And on my way home, I noticed that the honeysuckle vine which was cut entirely back is sprouting forth again from its thick stems. That made me happy.

Finally, just as it was time for Prairie Home to come on, I finished the weeding. Here's what I sent Mr. Moon.


Here's the full picture.


Honest to god, I feel as if I have truly accomplished something and I am at peace about that. I had a goal, I accomplished it. Now to have the man till it and I'll plant it and then mulch the fuck out of it. Collards, turnips, mustards, maybe even some kale to massage and bruise or whatever the fuck you do with that shit. Also mesclun and perhaps the best of all- arugula. Oh, how I crave that bitter green and the crap you get in the store is but a pale imitation of how it tastes when I go out, pick it, and bring it in to wash and eat.

It is a beautiful gloaming tonight. As the sun sank, it did things like this in my backyard.


And Maurice even caught gentle fire in the light.


I am indeed watching bits and pieces of "Prairie Home Companion" as I write this.


It's been a sweet reminder of what it was like to do our "radio shows" on the stage in Monticello. The sound effects guy, the foley, has a work table which looks very much like what Kathleen and I used in our shows, covered with telephones, cans, shoes, and all sorts of unlikely looking stuff. We used to have such a good time, doing those shows, knitting and crocheting in between our bits, making everything as visually funny as we could manage, passing a flask back and forth which we pretended to doctor our coffee with. The coffee in the thermos and the liquor in the flask were both actually red bush tea and the flavor of that tea still brings back those memories.
It all feels very sweet.
I believe I don't care to expend the energy to try and recreate a curry tonight but instead will simply cook a frozen spinach pizza. I surely hope I can figure out how to watch the Stones DVD. Mr. Moon is usually the tech guy around here and I am lazy and let him do it. I think I can.

Golly, Sue Scott is pretty and Garrison's eyebrows are two of the seven wonders of the world. I don't even want to discuss his hair. Still, I love him.

It is cool this evening, my doors are all open, no AC on. I may leave it off tonight entirely. It's supposed to get down to sixty-four tonight. Sounds downright comfy. I appreciate this fan dance fall is doing for us, flashing that blue lacy underwear, sending air kisses with her cool, dry, red lips.

The garden is weeded, the chickens are doing their final scratching of the night before they begin to drift into the hen house to fly up to the roost. My back is a bit sore but mostly I feel none the worse for my day in the garden. I've had a shower, the night is falling, Howard Levy is playing Bach on a harmonica and somehow, it's all pretty perfect. I miss my man but I'm glad he's doing what he loves to do and it'll be good when he comes home.

How the hell did I get so lucky?

I hear it's been a quiet week in Lake Woebegone. It's quiet here in Lloyd, too where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking and all the children climb bamboo and feed the chickens.

Love...Ms. Moon





Addendum


Thanks, Rock Gods!

Chicken News And Other Stuff


Elvis is down to three tail feathers, poor old rooster. This happens every late summer. He seems to know that his magnificence has dimmed, or perhaps he truly is just getting old. One of the reasons I was so happy to have Drogo was that I know in my heart that one of these days Elvis just isn't going to be able to do his roosterly duties for the sister wives and I don't just mean sex but I mean protection, as well. I had such hopes for Drogo and I am so sorry he's gone.
Well, next spring we shall introduce a new rooster into the flock and take it from there.

It's gray here today and the sky is a bit ponderous. It's not too hot though and that is good. I am moving slowly today, perhaps because my martini hit me hard last night which is probably because I had eaten nothing all day long except for a smoothie and Jessie's leftover curry from the night before which was so good that I decided that this weekend my goal would be to learn how to truly make it but of course it requires ingredients that, if they are available in Tallahassee, I do not know where. I bought some green curry paste though and will perhaps try to make a fake version.

I got this picture from Mr. Moon this morning.


He is up in Georgia, tilling the field to plant his food plot. Now I know nothing about hunting but I do know that you can't actually shoot the deer when they are in the food plot and that some people disdain this sort of hunting but I look at it like this- he's feeding a lot of deer. Probably fifty deer get fed for every one deer that ends up feeding us so it's a pretty good deal for the deer. Not to mention birds and bears.
I asked him if he was a hunter or a farmer and he replied, "Both," and he loves being on that old tractor and plowing the red dirt. Having been once married to a man who spent his time away from home in far less wholesome activities, I am quite content with seeing my man go off to plow and plant and eventually hunt. I certainly never envisioned myself as being married to a hunter but then again, I never envisioned myself as being married to a man who was closer to seven feet tall than I am to six feet tall. 
One never knows, is what I'm saying here and isn't that truly a fine thing? 

I just got an e-mail informing me that I can live-stream and WATCH Prairie Home Companion tonight via the computer. Well. Now I have a plan if my Rolling Stones DVD doesn't get here. That's quite a contrast- Garrison Keillor and his news from Lake Woebegon live or Keith Richards in the most junky Mcjunked-out phase of his life. 
Or both if I am lucky and the DVD gets here.

I think I will walk down to the post office and see if the Gods of Rock have smiled on me and then it is time to get in the garden. 

More hurricane lilies are popping up and blooming everywhere and a hawk is making his bold yet mournful cry and Missy is still on the empty nest and Eggy Tina is either not laying either or is laying somewhere I cannot find and my husband is in Georgia and I am here and we are both farmers but he is a hunter and I am not. I am a gatherer though. Owen called me a little while ago to tell me that the next time he comes over he is going to swing from the rope onto the branches of the tree and thus, he will be just like Tarzan "who never grew up."

I hope he wears the red velvet shirt when he does this. 

I am finding dead banana spiders everywhere but their eggs are wrapped in silk and there will be more next summer.

Fall is coming. It feels a bit forlorn with this gray sky, with that piercing hawk call. 
Some days it is like that.

Love...Ms. Moon





Friday, September 19, 2014

Whoo-Hoo! It's A Wild Friday Night!


Uh. Not really.
I spent about forty-two hours in town today. At least that's what it seemed like. I went to Trader Joe's where I bought sweet potatoes and a red pepper and to TJ Maxx (which is not where the purse was, sorry, it was at Marshall's) and bought nothing there, and then to Steinmart where I bought Lily a birthday present and finally found a kitchen rug. See above.

I sent a picture of it to a friend. "Too much chicken?" I asked her.
"Mmmm. Yes." she answered.
Oh well. I bought it anyway. It is the right size, it will be easy to wash, it is colorful and it was cheap.

Let's see. Then I went to the liquor store where I saw a guy I've known forever and ever. I performed the wedding ceremony for him and his wife almost ten years ago at Wakulla Springs and they are still quite happily hitched and it was so good to see him.

After that I went to the library. And then to Marshall's with a fierce determination in my heart to just buy that fucking purse! Buy it! Fuck it! (Well, not literally.) Be crazy! Be wild! Do it!
The purse was gone. I am not kidding you.
All I could do was laugh.

I ducked into Michael's because I have this crazy notion of knitting a blanket and letting my wrist be numb and not even worrying about it. The potpourri almost knocked me out. I swear to god when the potpourri thing started happening about twenty years ago I thought that surely it would last a season or two.
Nope. Still happening.
I'd rather smell horseshit than potpourri. It gives me a headache and makes me want to break things.
Also? Michael's didn't have any decent yarn.
I got out of that place fast. To me, Michael's is like hell exploded and they made a store out of it. They have Christmas shit up already. Right alongside plaster Frankenstein heads you can buy and paint yourself for Halloween fun and frolic. Fuck them.
All right. While we're talking about this kind of thing, let me bring up the subject of pumpkin. All over the internets I read about how women (always women) are orgasming at Starbucks because the pumpkin latte is back. And there's pumpkin beer. And pumpkin-scented candles. And pumpkin I-don't-even-know-what and you know what? Pumpkin is fine in pumpkin pie. Pumpkin smells lovely when you carve a real one and stick a candle in it. Beyond that- NO! Jesus god. I thought of the first lines of a novel (which I will not write- feel free) which goes something like this:
Thomas stretched his legs out as he leaned back in the rocking chair on the wide front porch of his family's antebellum home, took a deep and appreciative sip of the bourbon in the thick, leaded crystal glass he held in his long, aristocratic fingers, flicked a piece of non-existent lint off the front of his pink cotton Polo shirt and said to his daddy, "Fall. The time of year when even Addison's farts smell like pumpkin."

Moving on. Jessie got the job. Are we surprised?
Three weeks. Three weeks and she and Vergil will be moving in. This is rather unbelievable. Oh, how I hope she and Vergil will be happy here. Vergil is leaving his home and loved ones, friends and childhood memories to come to Tallahassee and I so want him to be happy. We love him so.

Lily is still feeling like shit. I called her and her voice sounded so puny I thought it was Owen. Please may she feel better tomorrow.

When I was kissing Mr. Moon good-bye today I said, "You have a good time."
"You have a good time too," he said.
"Oh. I will. I'm going to buy tofu AND salmon," and we laughed and kissed a little more.
"Thank-you," he said, "for letting me be who I am."
"Thank-you," I answered, "for letting me be who I am."

I have salmon marinating in a soy-ginger sauce right now. The chickens have been put to bed, Missy carried in my arms like a baby from her nest, Butterscotch back on the roost with her sisters. The church next door is leaking gospel music from all the windows and doors, my air conditioner is rattling, my movie did not appear in my post office box, I am feeling less like someone who is cool and all sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll and more like someone who might read in bed for hours and hours.

I spent forty-two or six hours in town today and I do not have to go back for days.

Agoraphobic? Nah, not really.
Love your house and yard so much you rarely feel the need to leave?
Most likely.

This is my life.

Love to all...Ms. Moon





More Clips No One Will Watch


All right. Mr. Moon has gone to the hunt camp. Jessie has driven off for home. Maurice and I are here to hold the fort, light the lanterns, feed the chickens, and...well, we're going to do it up, y'all. Yep. That cat and I are going to celebrate a rock and roll weekend. That's the plan.
And when I say a rock and roll weekend I mean we're going to party like rock stars.

With a bit of luck, my Netflix pick of the documentary, Stones In Exile, will be in my P.O. box today or tomorrow.



Yes, we get the actual disc. Yes. We are lame. Yes. We know it. Yes. We are old. So the fuck what?

I see that the Stones are going to be starting out their next bout of touring on October 25 in Adelaide, Australia next month and that just happens to be Mr. Moon's and my 30th anniversary of marriage. And the Stones have been playing together for twenty longer years than that.




Wouldn't it be fabulous, wouldn't it be amazing if we got on a plane and flew to Australia to see the concert?

Oh. Like that's going to happen. I mean, if I really wanted it to, it would. But just the idea of flying to Australia is enough to make me want to roll into a fetal ball of helpless panic. Let's not even mention the thought of being in a crowd of thousands of people trying to see the stage from wherever it is we would be sitting. Oh god! The humanity!
(Wouldn't it be fabulous, though?)

Nah. I'd rather watch concert footage on my TV in my own living room. That is how old I am.

And of course, I'd simply love to have Keith over for drinks and a good shepherd's pie. I'll see if I can work that one out.

Meanwhile, here I am in Lloyd with my chickens and the cat and dishes and laundry to do and trash to take and plenty of time to weed and tidy and read in bed way, way too late into the night. But I tell you what- if that movie gets here, Katy bar the door and Maurice hide your eyes 'cause Mama's gonna break out the whiskey. (Not really. I hate whiskey.)

Stay tuned for any and all reports.

Happy Friday, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. Thank you Ms. Saturdaysgarden for the awesome picture which you knew I would love.

P.P.S. Perhaps it would be a good idea to go to town and purchase one of those Life Alert button things so that if I fall down while dancing and CAN'T GET UP, Mr. Moon won't find my cat-chewed corpse on the floor of the den when he gets home. What do you think?


Thursday, September 18, 2014

Purloined Flowers



While I was walking this morning, Lily called me and she sounded horrible and she felt horrible. Up vomiting all night and running a pretty stiff fever, chills, aching. I finished my walk and went in and picked her up some ginger-ale and crackers and Emetrol and dropped those off, scooped up my Gibson and we went and retrieved Owen from school.
I got to meet Clare and she is a very pretty girl with huge eyes and lovely. She hid behind her mama's knee but she peeped around and smiled.
We drove to Lloyd and I said, "We're home," and Owen said, "This isn't my home. It's my grandparent's home."
I said, "That makes it your grandhome."
And it does, I think.

While I was fixing their lunch, Owen went out and picked me all of the hurricane lilies and I'm afraid I gave him sort of mixed messages on the gift, being a bit horrified at first and then knowing that he had no idea that would be any sort of problem at all and so I tried to cover up my shock and thanked him and put them in a vase and there they are in that picture with some of the last zinnias of the season.
How can you fuss at a boy for bringing you flowers?
When I was in high school I had a boyfriend who would do a sort of guerilla thieving of all of the roses he could find in dark yards at night and cut them and bring them to me in giant, huge bundles and bouquets. He was crazy, I was crazy in love with him, I've never seen that many roses, he bought me my first lobster dinner, he built me a tiny house in the woods with lumber and bricks he'd probably stolen from construction sites, oh, how beautiful he made me feel. How cherished. How protected and that was exactly what I needed, what I craved, what I yearned for.
As crazy as he turned out to be, I know now why I loved him and I do not chasten myself for that.
And oh, how he broke my heart later and I thought I would never, ever get over that.
I did.
But I still remember those roses, that tiny hidden house in the woods.

How in the world did I get from Owen and hurricane lilies to that boy and the roses and my broken heart? A short and crooked path, I suppose.

I showed Owen the shirt I bought at the Goodwill this week and he fell in love with it, the softness of it, the crimson velvet sheen. He wanted to wear it and I let him and I told him he looked like a pirate, like someone from Harry Potter, like Keith Richards. He wore it to swing on the rope from, he wore it to climb in the fig tree in. He was gorgeous.


Gibson wanted to feed the dogs some dog biscuits (we still have part of a bag of them which I will send home with Jessie for Greta) and I explained to him again that Buster and Dolly are not here anymore, that they are gone. He went to look for them anyway and when he couldn't find them, he munched some of the dog bones himself. He also shared two muffins with the chickens but he didn't feed Maurice anything. He rode his tricycle around in a circle from porch to hallway to dining room, to bedroom, back to porch, over and over again. We played on the bed, kissing games and feet games and silly games and I read him the Hand, Hand, Finger Thumb book for the one millionth time and part of another book that when I do the sad voices he pulls my face towards him and says, "Stop crying, Mer," and I say, "I'm not crying," in my most cheerful voice and then I go back to doing the voices and he has to tell me again. He has been carrying a little metal airplane around for about a week now and Lily says that when he wakes up at night he says, "Where my plane?" and she has to find it for him before he'll go back to sleep. I told Owen the other day that I was surprised Gibson hadn't scratched him with that plane yet and tonight, after they went home, Owen called to inform me that now Gibson HAS scratched him with it but he sounded fairly cheerful about it. He just wanted to tell me.

Jessie thinks she got the job and she is off having supper with friends and will be leaving either tomorrow or Saturday and Mr. Moon is heading up to Georgia to the hunt camp tomorrow for the weekend and I wrote a friend today that I feel like the unmoving center of a universe that swirls around me and she wrote me back that yes, I probably am and that it's okay and a beautiful thing and I should accept that and it made me get a bit teary. 

We're all swirling, no matter what, in the planetary sense, at least. It is a fine thing to be a center. Someone has to maintain the grandhome. Someone has to be here for when the comets and stars and suns and moons need a place to rest. 

I do not mind being that. Sometimes I think I have held myself back so much and sometimes I think that yes, this is who I am and I have always wanted not much more than a home and flowers and someone to love me and for me to love and that is exactly what I have with the addition of so much more and Miss Butterscotch is sleeping out again tonight and may she be safe and well, and all of us too. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Stream Of Almost-Consciousness

They're doing something to the railroad tracks and machinery is going back and forth behind my house, beep-beep-beep, grind, grind, beep. Miss Butterscotch was so traumatized by the possum the other night that she isn't sleeping in the hen house but somewhere else and she shows up in the morning, safe and sound, and don't tell me chickens don't think, don't tell me cats don't think, don't tell me babies don't think, even trees think, most likely.
Jessie's off to meet the painter, then to get her fingerprints taken to get her Florida nursing license and then an interview this afternoon, and this is really happening, really, truly and Owen was so happy yesterday when she showed up with his mama to pick him up from school that he said his brain was going to explode and both of those boys were wild yesterday, just wild, and then Gibson had a needing-a-nap-so-bad meltdown and he cried and cried and Owen got mad because we wouldn't buy him something he wanted because his birthday is about to be here and he's going to get a buttload of toys and he told his mother and me both that we are not invited to his birthday party and then he felt bad and oh, to be almost-five and not afraid to speak your feelings and to be loved entirely and completely even though.
I went back and looked at the purse, ready to buy, but it didn't thrill me as much. Shit. A hundred bucks. That's enough money for...a trip to the grocery, a lot of potting soil, I don't know. The red it was lined with didn't please me as much. So what? Purses. Fah. And hell yes, I can walk on stilettos, don't ask me why. To the end of the aisle and back at Pay Less, at least, but seriously, why would you do that? Although I used to have a pair of pink "reptile" skin heels that I wore when I used to go out with my nursing school friends, although I kicked them off when it came time to dance, and then I got married in them. What happened to those shoes? Where did they go? And that beautiful hippie dress that I loved and adored and that I didn't wear any underwear with and also that gorgeous Indian print dress that I wore when I was pregnant with Hank and with May, it flowed like a queen's gown, it made me feel majestic. Where do these things go?
And where do the babies go when the adults appear and where did I go, oh wait, here I am, sitting here, all the ages I've ever been inside of me and why does this make me weepy and what are they DOING on the railroad tracks?
I got to see both Billy and Togi yesterday and got hugs, hugs, hugs, such good, hard hugs, and why is it that some people, even if we don't see them very often, make us cry when we do see them because we love them so much and are so glad that they are on the planet the same time as we are, and why do I feel things so sharply, so fully that things like this happen to me? Shouldn't my edges be rounded by now? Instead I reach over and hold my husband's hand in the bed at night and say, "Why do I love you so much? I think I love you too much," and it gets worse every day, this loving-too-much, this caring too much, instead of the edges being rounded by this river of life, the protective coating is the thing which has been dissolved, and I want all of my children to be so happy, so safe, so loved, I want my grandsons never to feel the need to cry but of course that's not even reasonable but the thought of any being being in pain hurts my heart, even Butterscotch, her frightened heart forcing her to roost by herself somewhere alone, away from her sisters, and maybe all of this is why reading the news is just too painful, maybe it's why I can't begin to worry about what happens after this life, why would anyone take on that worry when there's so much here and now and also love and joy and every season the changes and the light and the music of the wind and the crickets and the voices of our loved ones and even the evil sometimes seems to me more of a cry for help and release than sign of the devil, and we all, all of us, yearn for the light and the love and the safety and the peace and the cool, clear water and all of us know, somehow, even from the moment of birth that we deserve those things and they can only be proffered through love and it's so easy to move people through anger, to propel them into action, that combined with the promise of a future life after death of ease and virgins, I don't know, I've never understood the promise of heavenly things, for me, if there is simply rest, it will be enough.

How fucked up WERE those railroad tracks?
I need to go take a walk.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

What Grandmothers Do


Take pictures of their grandsons in Marshall's, lying on the furniture.


Take pictures of themselves trying on camo-print stilettos with zippers up the back at Pay Less while their daughter buys their grandsons new flip-flops. 

And then send them to their husband. 

It's been a good day. 

Country Living At It's Finest



Jessie got in just in time for supper and when Mr. Moon went to shut the chickens up there was a damn possum in the henhouse and some of the hens were missing and he killed the possum and we rounded up chickens in the dark.
This is my life.

It is gorgeous here today.
Rained again last night.


Jewels on the elephant ears.


Jewel on the back porch. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Dental Procedures And Leather Purses

So I went to see my dentist and whenever I go see him, I think about the time he met me at his office two nights before Christmas Eve to put my crown on and I love him for that. Just love him. We discussed the bridge vs implant thing. He said, "Look- the bridge is a Mercedes. The implant is a Maserati."
For the cost difference, I think I'll go for the damn Maserati. He said, "It'll last at least twenty years."
I said, "I'm sixty. That'll do me for sure."
Which is sort of awesome. Hell, I have enough make-up to last for the rest of my life. This is comforting somehow. I mean, I'm still buying green bananas but there are some things I can buy now which I will never have to buy again.
Obviously not a kitchen rug.
After I went to the dentist I did a little more rug shopping. Either (a) I am the pickiest person in the world, or (b) I am not going to the right places, or (c) they make sucky rugs.
I ended up at a Goodwill. No kitchen rugs but I did buy a Ralph Lauren red silk velvet shirt for six bucks.

I also found a purse. Not at Goodwill. At the TJ Maxx. For those of you who do not know, I have a serious purse addiction. It's been quite in check for a good long time and I haven't bought a new one in a year. I shop. I touch. I pinch. I sniff the fine leather. I moan a little, very quietly so as not to draw attention to myself. But nothing has really tempted me in quite a while until...today.
Shit. That purse made me weak in the knees. It made my nether parts tingle. It was very plain leather, a little hippie, a lot Italian, the perfect size, lined in RED, and it was marked down to...one hundred and five bucks. 
After careful examination (some might call it fondling) I realized that the zipper on the side pocket was missing the pull thing. Which is no doubt why it was marked down. I told myself- You see! It is imperfect! and I forced my hand to place it back on the hook.
Sob. Sob. Sob.

And obviously, I am still thinking about it.
I believe I have a womb thing. I love bags, baskets, and bowls. And pockets. Things you can carry other things in. Things that hold things. Herbs, dough, eggs, babies, wallets, pens, fruit. Always have. Probably always will.

And dammit, that purse, like the implant, would last me the rest of my life.

Ten years ago, I would have bought that thing. I don't know why I am so loathe to spend money now. Another one of my neurotic behaviors. One I wish my husband would appreciate a little tiny bit more. (Says the woman who's about to get a dental procedure that costs more than some people pay for cars.)

Oh well.

Jessie will be here in less than two hours. I finally got the kitchen mopped. I just told Mr. Moon about the implant decision. I don't think he's thrilled. I should probably not bring up the purse, right?

It's been raining. It's nice. Clean sheets tonight, my baby will be home.

Life is fine. I am fine. Dinner will be fine if I get off my ass and make it.

I hope you're fine too. I truly do.



Trust Me- It Was Scary

It's like freaking Camelot around here in that the rain never falls 'til after sundown. If I wake up in the night, it is raining and when I get up, it is dripping still from the leaves. If it were just a bit cooler, it would indeed be a most congenial spot.

So. Dreams. Are other people's dreams the most boring thing in the world?
Let me sum the one that woke me up at five-thirty this morning thusly:

Went out with husband to hear band with a friend in it. First thing I did- knock guitars off of guitar stands. REALLY huge, big, major no-no. Luckily, no instruments harmed. Tried to order a Tanqueray and Tonic at a very crowded outdoor bar. Bartender, older sassy woman says, "Girl after my own heart. But why don't you get the red gin? It's five dollars for ten drinks. Horrified, I say, "No thanks." It takes forever to get the drink. Men hit on me. Ugly men with few teeth. I keep looking for my husband. Can't find him. Drink finally arrives in front of me. "That'll be forty dollars," says the bartender. I freak and decided that'll be the only drink I'm having that night. Of course I can't find my money. Finally I do. Then I leave the bar where I'm sitting but forget the drink. I am carrying coffee. Somehow I find I am in a dark alley, filled with scary punky gothy kids. One makes threatening advances, picks me up. I say, "I AM HANK'S MOTHER!" He takes me to the door of the bar and gently sets me back inside. I can see Mr. Moon but he can't see me and can't hear me. I realize I'd left my drink behind. I go to see if it's still there. It is not but they put it in a plastic jar behind the bar and instead of a lime slice, it's filled with soggy orange slices. "You won't replace it?" I ask the bartender. She looks at me as if I'm crazy, pours the sluck into a glass, hands it to me.
I am frantic to find my husband. I go into the restroom to collect my stuff which somehow I have left there. I pick up my canvas bag, clothes and books fall out. Someone says, "Why do you have so many books?"
"Because if the Apocalypse happens and I have no books, I am shit out of luck," I say. 
The bartender laughs at me. She is on break. 
"I only go out about once a year," I tell her.
"I can see why," she says. 

Never found husband. Never heard band. 

Who can name the most fears/anxieties/neurosis involved in this dream? Oh, there was more. But that's enough.

Anyway, la-di-dah and it's time to get ready for the dentist.
Jessie's coming in tonight. I must mop the kitchen floor because soon it will have enough soil upon it to grow corn in there.

It is gray. Leaves are still dripping. Hen house needs de-pooping.

I wonder if I should go to a bar tonight.

Advise, please.

Love...Ms. Moon

Monday, September 15, 2014

The Rest Of The Story

Well, those boys were fine today. Owen did not cry ONE tear going to school today and we were all quite thrilled about that. I think he might have been the most thrilled of all. Dude's getting his game on. He also told me that he's not sure but that he might be in love with Clair. Maybe. He might be "in it." His birthday is coming up real soon and that child wants everything advertised on the TV. Well, except for the "lady" toys. The other day I was fixing the children some chocolate milk and he screamed so loudly from the Glen Den that I thought for sure that the TV had fallen on his brother or something equally horrific. Perhaps an antique sword had fallen off the shelf and pierced one of them in the heart. I raced down the hall to find that he was frantic for me to see the commercial for this.


The players feed this poor pig until it pops. That's the game. This somehow seems to me to sum up almost everything wrong with our society today and yet, there is a very good chance I will not only buy it for him but will also play it with him.
Hey. It's got to be better than Candy Land.

The child is getting better and better at climbing trees. He scares the life out of me. "Could you reach up here?" he asks.
"No, so come down."
"I don't want to."
"Well, I have to pee anyway. Come on."
"Just pee outside Mer. I won't watch you. It's okay."
"No! Come down from that tree!"
Etc.



Gibson's verbal skills are increasing at a rapid rate. He talks a blue streak, much of it now English. He slays me. He wanted two eggs today. First I cooked him one and then he wanted another. He is completely enchanted to go find eggs and then have me cook them for him. And of course I do it. He tells me to give him bread for the chickens. This is a scam.


Sure, he gives some of it to the chickens but most of it gets crammed right into his little mouth. It's like the Benevolent Order of Chicken Protectors.
He is a kisser, a hugger, and a snuggler. He is a racer-across-the-bed when I am trying to change him. He likes to stir his own chocolate milk. He always spills it. "I make a mess," he says.
"I know," I tell him. "It's all right."
He kisses everything he likes from toys to eggs fresh off the nest. The way he pronounces "Maurice" cracks me up.
"I love you too!" he says, sometimes before I've even told him that I loved him in the first place. Mostly when he thinks I might be upset because he just whacked the hell out of his brother.

This is what those boys are like now, Owen almost five, Gibson two-and-a-half.
My god, I love them.

So it turned into an okay day and Jessie is coming tomorrow, I think, and my brother White sent me pictures from a trip that Glen and I took out west and went to see him a long time ago. I can't even remember what year that was. But here's one I really like.


That was such a great trip. I'd love to do it all over again. Thanks, White! Not just for the pictures but for the sweet memories.

That's about it.

Once again I did not go insane completely and I have an appointment tomorrow to go see my regular dentist to see if I can finally make up my mind about the bridge versus implant situation.
Jesus. I need to just get this shit OVER WITH.

Let's all have sweet dreams. Or at least interesting ones.

Love...Ms. Moon

The Crazy Report



The hurricane lilies are opening up their fantastical blooms on their slender stalks. They seem so unlikely, yet there they are. I see scattered groups of them marking former home sites around Lloyd, the old houses long gone, but the lilies still bloom where people once lived.

Quiet here today but the boys will be coming soon. Owen can't do the family whistle yet but he vocalizes the notes when he hops out of the car. Whoo-hoo! he shouts and I whistle it back, thus we establish where we are, announce greeting and welcome.

My weekend's hard labor did not harm me and I took a very good walk this morning. I got a text from Jessie and she is making a short solo visit this week to have an interview at the hospital in Tallahassee and to go through the house with the painter. I am so glad she is coming. Perhaps she will coax me out of my malaise and isolation.

And now I need to go make three medical-related calls, none of them anything scary but which shake me just by their very nature which is that of being related to the health care industry in any way. And also because they are phone calls. It is at times like this where am aware that the monster of anxiety is always right here, behind a door so thin that it is nothing more than an illusion.
Which of course does nothing but make me more anxious.
Illusions within illusions.
Funny how I'd rather spend five hours sweating like a draft horse than to make one silly phone call. Yet, there you are.

I never said I wasn't crazy.

It looks as if we might get some rain in the next few days. I will be glad of that.

May your Monday be a good one.

Love...Ms. Moon