Bless Our Hearts

Wednesday, July 27, 2016


The only barred rock I have left.


Here's the worst thing about anxiety and depression- everything in the world points to the fact that when you're suffering, that if you just got off your fucking ass and did something you'd be fucking fine. Therefore, you must like to be anxious and depressed.

And even if the "world" doesn't say that, you do. Your mind does. And then it beats the crap out of you because you're not getting off your fucking ass and doing something.
Even if you ARE getting off your fucking ass and doing something, your mind tells you that you're not doing the right things and you should be feeding the homeless and cleaning your own house and painting and changing your environment and doing yoga and meditating and finding meaning in all of it and getting over your own damn self.

So. Okay. You know what it's like when you wake up at two or three or four in the morning and you can't sleep and your brain just keeps spinning on and on about all of your inadequacies and your sins and mistakes and your complete and utter failure at everything you've ever done in your life?
Have you ever experienced that?

Well. Being anxious and depressed is like that, except ALL THE TIME, TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY. And you could have the entire Supreme Court sitting in front of you along with the Dalai Lama and Jimmy Carter and everyone you love and sweet baby Jesus himself and they could be telling you that no, you are a fine individual and everything is fine and none of it matters anyway, that we're not even equal to a dust mote in the cosmic galaxy of the universe, no more important that a molecule of a cat poop in the giant litter box of life and you'd still feel like somehow, some way, you are the most worthless individual on this and any other planet and goddam- have you looked at the mold on your door frames? and look at Hilary Clinton- she ain't sitting around crying over her losses, she's just become the first woman ever nominated as president of the United States of America and look at Mother Teresa, okay, don't, she was weird. But still.

And look at yourself, your crazy brain says- here you are, a rich (by most standards in the world) white woman in a first world country who has everything that anyone could ever want, in fact, anything that YOU could ever want and you're weeping over door frame mold and friends who have been dead for 22 years and if the fucking mold is bothering you that much, go wash it off. Plus, everyone dies.


Like that.

So. Okay. Moving on.

I am getting off my ass now. I've been trying off and on all morning to get the cloth parts off of two infant bouncy seats in order to wash them so that I can donate the seats to a local teen drop-in center for a big baby shower they're having for teen mamas and I can't even figure out how to do that and I know I've done it before and there you are.

Add that to the big pile of shit I can't manage.
I can't do.
I'm incapable of.
I'm too stupid to figure out.

It's all so ridiculous.

As am I.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Facts Of The Matter

It's been a day which has held a dream-like quality and I spoke to hardly anyone. I did hardly anything. I don't feel well. To say that every step hurts is an understatement. My energy is about at zero. Every damn thing I did today seemed to take a thousand times more effort than it should have.
I picked green beans and snipped zinnias and collected eggs and swept the front porches and did some laundry and finally unpacked and that took everything I had.
I took a nap and just lying on the bed was heaven. Would it be possible to spend a day in bed for no reason? I don't think I've ever done that in my life. I'm not sure I could unless I was sick.

Am I dying or depressed?

I don't have the slightest idea.

Mr. Moon just got home and he's gone out to the garage and I hear the chain saw. He's going to cut down the branch that fell on the garden. And now it's started to rain again. It rained this afternoon in a brief but impressive downpour, the temperature again dropping so quickly that I actually became chilled sitting on the porch and then it grew hot again and I know it's hot everywhere, not just here, and now as I write this, it grows cooler again.

No wonder we southerners are so crazy. We can't count on the weather or the politicians or the educational system or our crazy mothers. We're all halfway insane I think sometimes, some of us all the way there, the crazy road having been traveled successfully to its destination.
Ah well.
What are you gonna do?

Hillary Clinton just got the official nod as the Democratic candidate. I wish things weren't so conflicted so that we could simply boggle at the concept that a woman, a WOMAN, has gotten to that position. A grandmother. So that we could celebrate that. So that we could celebrate her. I have no idea what's going on in politics these days behind the scenes. Is Putin puppet-mastering Donald Trump's campaign? Are Bernie's supporters really so pissed that they'd rather throw their vote away, making a Trump presidency a reality than to vote for Hillary?

I don't know. I feel perfectly confused and exhausted and overwhelmed. I want to run away but would that solve anything?
Maybe tomorrow I'll take a walk and then just head to the river by myself. Take a chair and the book I'm reading. I could think about my friend Sue whose 67th birthday it would have been. She's been gone for 22 years and I still miss her bad. Real bad. She was wicked smart and funny as hell and life screwed her over seven ways from Sunday.
And then she died.

The rain is almost gone. The chickens are scratching for their last treats before roosting time. The feeder is filled with juvenile cardinals.

It's been a hard day for me. That's all there is to it. Some days are like that.

Yeah. They are. Despite the good and the beautiful and the fine, all of which I am completely aware of, they just are.

Love...Ms. Moon

Light And Darkness

The sky this morning when I took my walk was powerfully dramatic. I got out early enough to not-die but oh, how humid it is.

I took the new sidewalk down to the truck stop for the first time today.

A small step for Lloyd which makes our steps safer. I am grateful for that trail of cement. Farther on down, a crew was still working and the youngest guy was doing a full-on Michael Jackson dance, his work gloves standing in for Michael's bejeweled one. He knew I was watching and performed just for me and then tilted his head with a grin as I passed. I gave him a grin back. He was lovely. 

When I got off into the woods, I saw this. 

A tiny baby snapping turtle and he did not look pleased with the world but what turtle does? Unlike the dancer, he completely ignored me and when I recrossed the trail where he had been, he was gone to wherever it was he was going.
And then this.

The passion flower which looks to me as if God was drunk on red wine and giggly when he made it. 

Have you seen any of the clips of Michelle Obama's speech last night? 
That woman. 
My god, I am going to miss that family in the White House. Those little girls she spoke about, growing up in that house built by slaves. As horrified as I am right now at the popularity of a fear-mongering, hateful, bigoted bully, her presence on that stage gives me hope that this country does get some things right. That we can grow, can change, can see and support that which is intelligent and thoughtful and reasoned.

I can't let the day go by without mentioning that Mick Jagger turns 73 today. He has a new album coming out soon, a tour planned, and of course- a new child is on the way. Here's a Stones song that sort of sums up a lot of how scary the world is feeling right now. 

Baby won't you dance with me?

Oh hell. Why not?

Love...Ms. Moon

Monday, July 25, 2016

Eternal Mysteries And Other Stuff, Plus, "Mission To Murder" Would Make A Great Book Title

Guess what I realized today?
I know both a brain surgeon AND a rocket scientist.
Does that make me any smarter?
No. No it does not. But oh, how I wish!

I mopped my kitchen floor and the floor of the bathroom which adjoins the kitchen. Also, the laundry "room" (written with great irony). Do I feel better?
Sure I do.

I talked to my neighbor. She vows and declares that Dot-Dot the killer dog is safely chained and fenced and penned and so forth. That she has let her chickens run the past few days. I didn't let mine out while I was in town but opened the door when I got back after closing the gate to the driveway which I never do. Not that the closed gate and gappy fence on this property would keep out a dog on a mission to murder but it might slow him down. And there's also the possibility that there are two other dogs in Lloyd that are loose and killing chickens. Fuck if I know but it sure is nice to see my babies out in the yard, pecking and scratching. The surviving Barred Rock and two banties wouldn't even LEAVE the coop for a long time. I am pretty sure that the Barred Rock is a rooster. He's growing tail feathers and the beginnings of a drape.

Lily and the children ended up running errands with me today. Lily even drove me. And we met up with Hank at El Patron for a lunch and it was fine.
Here. I got to kiss the baby.

And squish her up. Isn't she gorgeous? Owen has lost a top tooth and he's mighty proud of that. He pulled it himself, which is what he does. The big guy tooth is already coming in and it looks huge, as the adult teeth do when they grow in. I looked at his hands today and he's just getting so big. They are not baby hands at all anymore. They are boy hands. I just got a text from Lily saying that he tried to run away this afternoon because she made him practice reading. School is starting in three weeks, which is impossible to believe. I asked Lily if he'd packed his leftover chicken wings from lunch and a change of underwear.
Haven't heard back on that one yet.

We had a new waiter at the El Patron today. His name was Mannie and we approve. He laughed at our jokes and brought us extra salsa.
"It's like you know us," said Lily.
Gibson greeted him by saying, "Sir! I want cheese sticks!"
I liked the "Sir" part.

I picked the few okra that were ready today.

Aren't the red ones pretty? The garden is just so depressing. Something (a blight?) has killed all the tomatoes, the beans have aphids. The sweet potatoes are still alive though and I've never grown those before so I need to do some research to see when to pull them. I think they have to stay in the ground until first frost. Or that may just be true for more northern latitudes.
I'll look it up. It sure would be nice to get some.
It's time to start thinking about the fall and winter garden which is always a cheerful thing to do.

A rainstorm has suddenly come upon us. It's pouring from the sky, great sheets of water slapping the ground. What a blessing! The air temperature has dropped dramatically but in the time it's taken me to write this and go start some zipper cream peas, the rain has just about passed and what will remain is the moisture-saturated air, the humidity which shall torment us again tomorrow. I swear- this is just a hard time of year and it always is. I have a bug bite of mysterious origin on one foot which is itching like fire, a trail of blood from some wound I got going down my leg and a fierce rash under my left bosom. This is the way of it. I do not think that earth is our native planet sometimes. The allergies, the fungi which plague our skin, the way gravity bends our bones and stretches our joints as we age. Where, oh where did our alien foremothers come from who combined their DNA with that of the early primates?
I do not know.
Or perhaps we should just regrow our gills and return to the ocean.
It's all a mystery to me. The beauty and the beast of it all.

Perhaps if I were a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist, I would have more answers but I am not and I do not but the air smells delicious and my peas are simmering and my floor, for this second, is clean.

Love...Ms. Moon

A Little Comment About Comments

I have changed my comment arrangement a bit and hope it's okay for everyone.
Maybe things will be easier?
Also- I finally went and looked at my comment spam file and there were many comments there which for some reason that only God and Google know, were designated as spam. So. If you have ever commented and it didn't show up, that's why. I went through and marked quite a few as "not spam."
We shall see where that leads us.

I love comments so much and I absolutely hate the fact that I've never seen some.

All right. That's it for now.

Thanks for your patience in this and many other matters.

Yours truly...Ms. Moon

Want A Little Cheese With That Whine? No Thank-You. I Would Prefer Narcotics

I have so much to do today that I feel paralyzed. So what have I done?
Gotten up, drunk a bunch of coffee, taken trash to the place where you take the trash, gone to the post office and sent a friend a little birthday card. Also called my neighbor to ask for the dog owner neighbor's phone number but I got her voice mail (I swear to you- I wrote "answer machine" and then realized that she has a cell phone, of course, and no machine is involved and now I think I'll go get my smoothie out of the ice box, okay?) and haven't heard back from her.

I need to do laundry, go to town and run errands, stop by Lily's and deliver presents for the children and, more importantly, kiss the children. I need to clean, or at least mop my kitchen because it's nasty, y'all. It was nasty before I left and the mop fairies didn't stop by while I was gone, it would appear.

As you can see in the picture above, Maurice is completely and blissfully unconcerned with getting anything done whatsoever. Perhaps she is thinking about catching a lizard or a cicada or perhaps she is thinking about getting in another fight with Jack. Who knows? Not me. But whatever she's thinking about, it doesn't seem to be engendering much activity.

Oh wait. She just went in to check out the food bowl.

Yeah. That would be a cat. Last night Jack slept approximately on top of me. I think he missed me. He actually purred.

Oh god. Who wants to hear about my cats? Or my errands? Or anything that a will-be-sixty-two-years-old-in-three-days-woman has to say?
Do you know why I am sitting here writing this? Because I can and because that's what I do and because I'm in despair because my birthday is coming up and although I'm writing about it, I really just want to ignore it and I've been saying I'm sixty-two for months now and so what's the point of making a deal out of it? I don't want to go out to celebrate, I don't want to stay in to celebrate, I don't want to celebrate at all.
I'm sorry. I know I should be all wise-woman-crone-birthday-girl-pink-candles-on-the-cake but fuck that shit, no, I am not.

I feel like I'm over the hill, done, washed up, ugly, old, and as useful as tits on a boar hog as they say around here sometimes. Supposedly they say that. I don't know.
I think about people older than I am who are still living vital, exciting lives and I think, Good for them. 
I think about the couple who were our fearless leaders in Cuba and I think about Keith Richards and I think about a friend of mine who is about to go hike the Hight Sierra Trail for a month, and I think about, oh, everybody, and it exhausts me.


What a stupid, boring age. Who thought I'd live this long?

Well. Fuck. I have. You want to know what's depressing? Walking past vintage shops in a hip, cool town to see things hanging in the windows that are not as old as actual clothing you have hanging in your own closet. Also- taking make-up to that cool hipster town and not even unscrewing your mascara once because- who the fuck cares? Also- catching sight of yourself in the mirror and wanting to die. Also? Having to keep your chickens cooped up. Also?
Well. You get the drift. And just in case you think I'm an incredibly shallow human individual- YOU ARE RIGHT- plus the fact that there are so many truly hard and sad things going on around me that I can't even talk about.

All right. I'm going to go get dressed and get to Lily's and go from there.

Make-up will not be involved.

Love (for what it's worth)...Ms. Moon

Sunday, July 24, 2016

Sunday Sermon Delivered By One Old Lady Who Is Home

After a mere ten hours on the road, we are home.
We took the scenic route and so the extra hours were to be expected and it was worth it. The road through the mountains, the cloud-route with the valleys and the tiny hollers with cabins and a patch of corn growing in the front yard- it's the journey that matters, not the destination, although the destination has been fine to reach.

I am home now where my chickens and my cats live. Where my garden is. Where my front porch plants are. Where my stuff is. Where my washing machine and my broom and my dustpan and my stove and my iron skillets live. Where my goddesses reside, the mermaids, the Madonnas, the Frida's.

All of my remaining chickens are fine and my house-sitter reported the other day that she saw two loose dogs, two doors down, one matching the description of the dog who killed my chickens. 
I'm about to go apeshit on someone. I'm about to go I'VE BEEN TO CUBA AND I'M NOT PUTTING UP WITH THIS BULLSHIT ANYMORE on someone. 
My chickens are free range chickens. Their ability to run in my yard makes them happy and healthy and makes me happy and healthy too. They are miserable in their coop and no chicken-killing dog has the right to keep them in there. 

Mr. Moon has already gone out and picked beans and is shelling them. We shelled some beans last night at Vergil's mother's house. She is a real, true gardener. When Vergil and his sister were little, she fed them with what she grew in her garden and preserved and what her apple trees gave her and the goats that she kept, milked and made goat cheese from. 
We of course are not that serious with our garden but it sure does bring us pleasure. A large branch fell on part of our garden during a storm that happened a few days ago but that's just part of it. Trees drop branches. At least we got rain. 

It's always weird, getting home after being away. The cats come running up, the chickens must be checked on, the porch plants must be watered. I say that I have to pee in the corners to make it all mine again, and that, in a way, is true. Not literally, but metaphorically, at least. 
I've put a few things away and swept a floor or two and have laundry going and have talked on the phone to a very old friend who left a message on Tuesday- so long ago that he'd almost forgotten why he called me. This is the friend who believes in astrology who read my chart once for me and told me that although yes, I am a Leo, I am far more Cancer, which would explain my love for home and all that entails. 

It's hot. It's humid. The crickets (cicadas? frogs? all?) are so loud that I can barely hear myself think on the back porch. Once again, I have gone away and I have come back. 

I had a great time with my daughter and her husband and their magnificent son, August Glinden. In the few short days I've been gone my son has publicly come out as a trans man and now I suppose I can write about that from the perspective of what it's been like, to think you've given birth to four daughters and to find that no, you have not. What an adventure that's been! Up until now, it's not been my story to write but now I suppose it may be. The bottom line to it all, of course, is that my son is the person he's always been and I've loved him from the moment I gave birth to him and always will. Gender is fluid but love for my babies is not and when people are expecting a baby and get that telling ultra-sound and announce, "IT'S A BOY!" or "IT'S A GIRL!" I think, well...maybe. 

Just love, y'all. Just love. 

And love with your heart and love with your muscles and love with your soul and love with your eyes and love with your bones and love with your brain and love with your hands and just love. 

Right now, at this point in history, I think that may be the only alternative we have. 
Do it strong and do it with all the lights shining upon it and when you see something that reeks of not-love, of hate, of darkness, speak the fuck up. And when you see something that is beautiful and true and light-filled and right, say so. And with loud crashing symbols, as the Bible says. 

And let's not lose our sense of humor because without that, life ain't worth living. 

I'm home. 

Love...Ms. Moon

On Our Way Home

We got up at an early-ish but not unreasonable hour this morning and ate some toast and yogurt and packed up the truck and now we are on our way back to Florida. 

Last night we went up to Black Mountain where we had supper at Vergil's mama's house which is a gorgeous place. August was our prince, our benevolent tiny ruler, our little golden sun King. 

He fell asleep on the way back to Asheville and oh, how I cried when we said good-night, good-bye. I kissed his little foot and told his sleeping self that I love him. 

We will see him and his mama and daddy soon when they return to Tallahassee. 

It's been a sweet trip and I will never forget that day on the river. 

The misty fog is hanging low as we drive through the mountains to get back to our swampy, flatland world and I am so glad we've made this trip and as always, travel has given me much to ponder, to remember.

Such different worlds we all live in and yet, the same one, all of us somehow bound by links, both short and long, made of love. 

I believe that. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Saturday, July 23, 2016

Pictures. An Important Link

An Asheville "yarden" as Vergil calls it. Can you read the sign?

A Link to Hank's new blog. You know you've been waiting for this. Me too. He's such a glory hallelujah, that boy.

Straw fighting at the restaurant. Two more glory hallelujah boys.

The day proceeds.

Love...Ms. Moon

Friday, July 22, 2016

Up In The Mountains, Into The Water

Today was a balm for everything and I've said, "Thank you" so many times that now I've started apologizing for saying it.

Pictures. With few words. Because this is how it was today and there was rushing river water and slippery rocks and a laughing baby and a fine, fine breakfast and this has been one of my favorite days of my entire life.

And now it's rained and we're going to stay in with pizza and martinis and Netflix and that laughing baby who can throw sixty kisses a minute and the air is cool and I can hear one bird, singing a sweet city, throaty song and the drip, drip, drip of the rain drops off the leaves and once again...thank you, for all of this. 
And I do not apologize for saying it. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Asheville Reportage

It's been a fairly busy few days here. That picture above was taken the first day we were here, August getting loved on by both grandparents at the same time. He is such a joyful boy. He adores his Boppy.

Yesterday Jessie and Boppy and August and I walked downtown for some shopping and sight-seeing. I bought things for grandchildren. 
Yeah, weird. I know. 
Here's August eating and reading Pat The Bunny, that classic book of fun and action.

The child ate hummus and falafel until I thought he'd burst. 
While we were there, I went to use the ladies' room. Two ladies came in behind me and one chose to use the men's room instead of waiting like a sheep. I wondered if, since I was in North Carolina, I was required by law to call the police to report this bathroom irregularity. 
I didn't. No one seemed to care. 

Asheville is just such a different world. I love it and yet, it sort of drives me crazy. There are SO few people of color that I see. Maybe I'm just looking in the wrong places. It's so hipster and crazy-cool and one takes no more note of a six-and-a-half foot tall woman wearing boots, short-shorts, earrings the size of mini-coopers and a half-shaved head talking to another woman about using bone broth for their babies than one does of...well, anyone else. 
Bone broth. It's a thing, y'all. 

In a way, it all reminds me of the hippie days but with a lot more disposable income. Last night we went over to the house where Jessie and Vergil and August are staying for the summer to share supper. It's a big old rambling house with approximately the same sort of decorations and food and mamas and babies and chaos and cooking and garden and guitars that was going on forty years ago. 
There are more bikes, however, also nose rings. We hippies hadn't really discovered either nose rings or tattoos. This generation has taken care of that and if I had a nose I liked I'd get a nose ring. I love those things! 

Here's August climbing the steps.

He's getting good at that. That boy is all over the place. I got to help his mama give him his bath in his little tub in the big tub in the high-ceilinged bathroom upstairs. He loved it and I am here to say that he has the cutest little butt in the whole world. After he was rendered squeaky clean and happy, his mother rubbed delicious smelling lotion on him and tried to settle him down with a little massage but he wasn't having it. He wanted to crawl off the bed and explore his room-world so she got him dressed for bed and then read him a book which he did actually sort of pay attention to and nursed him for a bit. Then his daddy came upstairs and got him to sleep. This is their ritual. 

The downstairs was filling up with people come to play music, including a woman from France who played the accordion, I think. She is doing a thing called WWOOF, which stands for World-Wide Opportunities On Organic Farms. 
The internet has definitely played a role in making it easier for like-minded people to find each other and to provide opportunities to travel and so forth, but as I recall, we sort of all figured that out without the internet in some inter-galactic hippie way. It's so interesting to observe all of this- the differences, the same-sames. 

After August got put to bed, I asked Mr. Moon to bring me home. I just wasn't up to dealing with so many people and was in a strange mood. Part of it, I think, was that I'd read an article about Bill Cosby in Vanity Fair before we went over and that whole deal is a huge trigger for me. The perfect TV daddy who had been drugging and raping woman for decades, living two such separate lives, getting away with it for years due to his power, his money, his reputation, his public persona. 
It makes me so ill in my gut and this whole Republican National Convention is having a similar effect and although we didn't watch it last night (I simply cannot), I'm still quite aware of what's going on and I'm scared shitless. It seems to color everything in my world right now. 

Anyway, the little family is here and we are going to go to breakfast so I need to end this. 
Jessie says they played Beatles and Bob Dylan songs after we left and I am sad I missed that. 
Hippies. Dang hippies. 
God, I love them. 

So. Off to new adventures. We might even go to some waterfalls, get in the water, which would be nice. I could use a holy cleansing.

I'll take more pictures today. 

I hope all of y'all are well. Let's hang together, folks, and try to remember that love is more powerful than hate which is a very hippie thing to say and I'm proud to say it. 

Maybe I'll get a tattoo. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Visiting The Grand In Asheville

We are in Asheville which is, if possible, cooler than it was last time I was here. Not cool in the temperature sense as it is quite warm but cool in the sense that it's just charming as motherfucking hell and there are awesome hipster people everywhere and we went to one of the gozillian restaurants for lunch, a sort of Rasta joint and got salads and pasta with jerked tofu and vegetables and it was all fresh and delicious and we got completely filled up and it cost less than our hipster/cool delicious breakfast in Athens cost us this morning.

The Downtown Hipster™ apartment we're staying in which Lis and I stayed in two years ago, is simply delightful.

View from the front porch. And what you can't see is the Greenwise Grocery Store right across the street where a guy is playing some sort of harpy, drummy instrument out front and all of the people in the story are gorgeous and braided and tattooed and giant-earringed and booted and transcendent and glowy and healthy. 

Of course a jar of pickled okra costs $13 but I bet that's some damn good pickled okra, organic and everything. 

Difference between traveling with Lis and with Mr. Moon:
If I asked Lis is she wanted to go to the Greenwise with me she would have probably said, "Try and stop me," whereas when I asked Mr. Moon he said, "No."

To give him credit, he was half asleep and he did go with me but it's a bit awkward to shop with him because pickled okra costs $13 and so forth and he's not even aware of how much regular food in a regular grocery store costs and is looking for bargains and well, honey, we're on vacation. 

Anyway, la-di-dah and I'm not freaking out about a damn thing and August is just as cute as he could be and he claps his hands and he'll sometimes lean in for a kiss if you ask him for a kiss and he can blow kisses, although not on demand, and he shakes his head, no-no-no, and grins his little gap-toothy grin and loves his grandpa's beard and his grandmother's jewelry and he still loves his mama like the earth loves the sky, like the bee loves the blossom, and he's beautiful. Of course. 
As is his mama. 

So here we are and we've bought cheese and crackers and we have fruit and bread and cheese and coffee and Vergil and Jessie and the boy are walking over to join us. I'm still full from lunch, to be honest, but we'll have a fancy drink and figure out our dining plans and I am so lucky and so grateful to be here in Asheville, N. C. which is so damn pretty it makes you want to live here and learn to be a hipster, albeit an aging hipster, with all the music and food and yards full of flowers and herbs and weeping willows and vegetables and tomatoes like you've never seen in your life.

We should all enjoy such a place now and then. I believe I will make a tomato pie tomorrow. 

Love...Ms. Moon