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

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

Friday, September 4, 2015

Not In The Mood To Talk

But this. 
This makes it all worthwhile.




Thursday, September 3, 2015

Well, My Feet Appreciate The Effort


Well, I finally got my mojo working and managed to mop three rooms and the hallway. Oh wait. Should I include the extremely small bathroom and laundry room? Sure, why not? So I mopped five rooms and a hallway.
And hung all the clothes out and then had to bring them in before they were dry due to rain and blah, blah, blah.
Before you get all up and congratulate me or anything, please note that I did very little desperately needed dusting and what I did was hardly what you'd call "dusting" but more like "spreading Lloyd greasy black dust around."
Whatever. It smells really good. If you like the scent of Fabuloso, vinegar, and bleach.
Which I do.
I also smell like those things now which I'm not sure is what every husband wants his wife to smell like when he gets home from a long day of work but hopefully the smell of venison meatloaf and apple/blueberry cobbler will distract him from that.
Yes. Yes I do live in the fifties and don't you wish you did too?
Oh wait. You don't? Well, please take into account that I wear ugly overalls 99% of the time and he never complains and he makes MY martinis.

So. Favorite quote of the day:

Federal District Court Judge Bunning on hearing that so-called Christian woman (or as I call her, pawn of the devil) who refuses to issue marriage licenses because God told her not to because it is now the law that HOMOSEXUALS can legally and constitutionally be married, would also not authorize her deputies to issue the legal licenses, said:

"Okay. Jail it is."

Bless her heart.

And dear Jo of Infantasia shared this on Facebook with me.



Sure. It's over seven minutes long. So what? You got something better to do than watching Bruce Springsteen dance with his mama?

Love you whether you watch it or not.
Ms. Moon

Let's All Shine On!

Again I have walked.
Again I have lived.
This is a never-ending miracle to me in the summer.
Should we start a lottery to guess on which date I'll start bitching about how cold it is?

But seriously folks.

Okay. Let's play Jeopardy. Here's your answer:
"Something wicked this way comes."
Question:
"What does the post master thinks when he smells me coming?"

Haha! I got a million of 'em!

I feel like a wild beast. I really do. Not in a good way. In a way like I'm an untended creature whose coat has grown so shaggy that twigs and leaves are tangled in it and whose hooves are three feet long. I need a pedicure so bad that I can't get one because I am completely too embarrassed to allow anyone to touch my feet. I'd have to tip in the hundreds. I mean, I did cut my toenails yesterday but the callouses on my heels are deep and cracked and, okay, permanently dyed black from the good old Lloyd dirt. I just checked to see if I am exaggerating.
No. I am not.
There will be no picture.
I remember talking to a woman once who said she soaked her feet in Oxyclean before she got a pedicure. I should go buy some Oxyclean. Next time I go to the store, I'm going to get some.

Onward. Here's a butterfly on a zinnia.


Now isn't that pretty? See the watermelon vine all up in there? That little red blossom in the lower right is the watermelon flower. Black swallowtail. Red zinnia.
I like to be precise about these things.
Hey! Does anyone know what this is?


I espied it when I ducked off the path into the woods to pee.

So I'm on disc 33 of the 38 discs of A Dance With Dragons.
It's taking me even longer than it should because sometimes, in a fruitless effort to glean a clue about what I'm listening to, I start a disc over.
Look. George RR Martin has created more characters in these books than I have neural pathways in my brain. I am not kidding you. There are entire families I have no idea about. But still, I listen. And I even enjoy. Fuck it. I don't need to follow everything. And eventually it always comes back to Tyrion Lannister and he's my favorite character so it's okay.

Well, half the day has passed and I haven't done one damn thing. My goal for today is to do some inside cleaning (that's of my house, not my personal body) and once again, try to create a supper which doesn't require me to go to town.

I can probably do that.

Love...Ms. Moon


Wednesday, September 2, 2015

How A House Becomes A Home

I did spend most of the day outside, but moved so very, very slowly. It has been hot and it has been humid and perhaps now we might get a teeny tiny bit of rain although the radar shows the merest band of weather heading this way. I did hear thunder a moment ago but that often means nothing, these late summer storms, skating about, missing us by less than miles.

Teasing bitches of summer.

So oh, the chickens have fresh clean water and a fresh hay for their nests and their feeder is refilled with their feed. I have potted plants I've been rooting and repotted plants to make way for other plants and then repotted THOSE plants. I think this may be my own old lady method of nesting which I am doing for Jessie. I picked up fallen branches and hauled them to the burn pile and I had a happy few moments, feeding cut-up grapes to the chickens.
Mick will not take food from my hand. This is my fault. I did not hand train him the way I did Elvis. Well, he did take ONE piece of grape from me but it seemed that this one small action took all of his courage and although he came close again and stared at me with great intention, he would not take another.
Speaking of my darling chickens, I really do think I may have gotten an egg today from Lisa Marie.


Here are all the eggs I got today (the ladies are slacking in this heat) and the one on the left is Camellia's and the next is either Chi-Chi's or Cha-Cha's and the next two are Butterscotch's and Lucille's and after that- well, I do not recognize that egg. It is a big smaller, and lighter than the other brown eggs I get. Nicey's eggs are a bit paler too but her eggs are quite distinctive in that they lack the shiny smoothness of the other hens' eggs. And they are sometimes a bit freckled.
So no, that it is not Nicey's egg.
I really think it is Lisa Marie's.

As I was sitting on my pack porch steps, handing out grapes, I thought about a day I came to the house before we'd moved in. I'd been cleaning and scrubbing and walking around thinking, "This is mine, this is mine," and loving it all so much, feeling amazed at the gift of this old beautiful house. I sat on those steps and it was March and the sun felt good on me and I closed my eyes at the wonder of it all, the pure pleasure of it. I felt as if I had finally come home.

Here I am now, over eleven years later, still amazed at the wonder of it. I could not have imagined all that would happen to me and my family and my friends in these eleven years. Grand babies were but gleams in their parent's eyes. Jessie and Lily were still in high school. I had no chickens and had not even met Kathleen who gifted me with my first ones. I had not acted in any plays at the Opera House nor had I planted my garden. The bed which now holds camellias and ferns was filled with thorns and ratty pyracantha and nandina and the yard was wild and untamed. The only palms in the yard were the sagos in the front yard.
I still thought my book was going to be published.
I had yet to turn fifty.
I had never cooked a meal in this house nor made love in it or changed a baby's diaper in it or danced in the hallway of it or heard musicians playing in it or washed a load of clothes in it or sat through a rain storm on the porch of it or drunk martinis with my lover in it or taken a bath in it or lived in it at all but I knew I wanted to do everything in it, maybe die in it, if that was part of it all.

And here I am now. And there have been weddings and parties and flowers and gardens and there are palms and camellias and babies and more babies to come and there have been joys and there have been sorrows and more meals than I can count, more love than I could have fathomed.
There is even a dishwasher. Which I have not grown sanguine about in the least.

I have chicken parmesan in the oven and a loaf of rosemary and olive bread. My husband is home and it has been a good day for him. I am dirty and I have sweat today and I am content.

You never know. You just never know.

But this I do know- I was right when I felt that I had come home.

Home.

In the true sense of the word.

And I have not grown sanguine about that either.

Thank you for coming to visit me in my home. It is raining, yes, a teeny-tiny bit. It is splendid indeed and the dirt and the air smell like life.

This life. Which I love.










Better Living Through Amateur Therapy?

I decided to take my house dreams and do something productive with them. Before I fall asleep I have been visualizing those houses and trying to bring them into better being, to merge them into one beautiful house, to clean them out to the boards and walls, to replace the many non-functioning filthy appliances with the appropriate number of new ones, sparkling and made mine. Lay the floors with oriental rugs with ruby hues, clean the windows so that light comes in and replaces darkness, fill the dark corners with light and with books and with plants.
All the while, incorporating those things which I do love about these dream houses. The hallway lined with windows and plants, the little pool and fountain outside the door, the ocean somewhere nearby.

And still this morning I woke from horrible dreams. A hurricane had passed. I had nothing to wear. My stepfather dogged my every step, begging me to let him take me in his arms. I yelled at him, I ranted, I cursed him. He would not leave.
People were partying in yet another dream house addition, a guest house, and I chased them out.
I tried to explain depression to someone who insisted that all I had to do was to focus on all of the good things in my life, this world.

The dreams dragged me down into a pewter depth of feelings that were, to say the least, not comfortable.

What to do?
Let the chickens out, drink the smoothie. Go for a walk.

This blooming, finally, on my front gate.


The moon flowers.

The sky as gray as my soul, the air as humid and murky as my thoughts.


Heavy clouds, as ponderous with water as a crooked politician with lies.

How could someone lose this?


Their sparkly eye shadow in all of my favorite colors. The colors of the sea around Cozumel.

I saw a rabbit, hop-running across the road in front of me. I saw a huge gopher turtle slip into his or her burrow.


I was sad not to get his picture but then I looked up to see another, that one's twin (at least to my human eye) lumbering along, also heading towards the burrow.
He allowed me to come close and although he started to pull his head and legs into his shell, when I spoke softly to him, he stopped and looked up at me, as if waiting to hear what else I might say. 


I thanked him (her?) and we both went on our separate paths. 

I am home now and feeling better, dreams drifting on to probably waylay me again. 

But this.


The Firespike has begun to bloom and I swear, it is happening before my eyes. 


This is a plant very easy to root and I have done just that and planted it all over the yard. 

The yard. 

This is where I am going to spend my day. I need a day of retreat and dirt and caring for what I have right here.


I have plenty of company, none of which will ever torment me in my dreams.

Peace.

Ms. Moon

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Pictures Tell The Story


Who wears it better?


Dream outfit.


We like bellies.


You got a baby in there?

And so forth. 

Love...Ms. Moon

And So It Goes, Part Whatever

Jesus fuck.
I just called the NP's office and guess what?
They did respond to my email yesterday by calling the pharmacist where I get my hormones refilled and simply refilled them for five more months.
Holy shit!

Okay. Now I can collapse. It would have been mighty nice if they'd told ME about this but what can you expect?

I have been going over my childhood to try and figure out what in the world caused this horrible and illogical fear of doctors I have. We had a very nice pediatrician who actually dated my mother for a short while. I know that at one point when I got what I remember as a "flu shot" but which may have been any kind of immunization, it took three people to hold me down to get it.
Yeah. That was bad.
But there has to be more.
And there is something I remember but I don't remember all of it which I find odd. And somehow it all has to do with shame and helplessness and all that murky stuff that gets stuffed back into the darkest recesses of the mind but which can poison everything for life.

Well, anyway, time for the crash. The amount of adrenalin in my body is not going to go quietly.

Thank you so for putting up with my own (not very) unique brand of insanity. It helps to talk about it more than I can say. And I will also say that at least having this form of insanity makes me so much more compassionate for others who have their own kinds which, on the surface, may appear to be ridiculous, but which I know has nothing to do with that part which shows.
Nothing.

Love...Ms. Moon


Monday, August 31, 2015

I Will Live


There's the plow point I found yesterday in the garden. You'd think by now I would have uncovered everything of interest in that garden but no, I have not. I sink my trowel into the dirt and it hits something and usually it's an oyster shell or a bit of old brick or bottle but sometimes, it's more interesting.

Phew. I'm breathing again. Not sure why. I haven't actually CALLED my NP's office although I did send an email via their website. Have they answered? No. They have not.
I swear. I need to change practitioners.
Like that's going to help.
The last two doctors that I felt vaguely comfortable with were, strangely enough, men.
One was the resident I went to when I was going to a Family Practice Residency program for my physical to get into nursing school. Why did we have to have a medical exam to get into nursing school? Who knows? But he was a great big warm bear of a man and he joked with me and made me feel comfortable. Of course he left Tallahassee when he graduated and is now the beloved community doctor of my favorite people over in St. Augustine. I've seen him since at parties that Lon and Lis have had and after Lis got her surgery, he called her EVERY DAY to see how she was doing. No bullshit, just caring and concern and good, sensible advice.
I swear to you, I'd see if he'd be my doctor again if St. Augustine wasn't three hours away.
The other doctor who didn't give me the complete willies was a doc in Tallahassee. I don't even know why I quit going to him. Maybe because I had a suspicion that he was getting a bit too friendly with the cocaine. But fuck! Who cares? He diagnosed a situation with Mr. Moon that saved his life. He's still practicing but only under the auspices of a health plan which we do not belong to.
And there you go.
I started going to the woman I'm seeing now because I heard she was open to alternative medicine, which she is. But goddam it, don't suggest to me that I might need triptophan for life-crippling/suicide-thinking anxiety and depression. Just don't. Yeah. I'll take triptophan and whatever else you recommend (and sell). Along with whatever the fuck pharmaceutical will rearrange my brain in ways that exercise and meditation and supplements and so forth and so on will not and can not.
Oh Jeez. It's overwhelming.

Anyway, I did have my boys today. When I was with just Gibson at their house, he crawled up in my lap and clung to me like a baby chimp and pulled my head to him so that I could kiss him and kiss him on his cheek and neck. He fell asleep on our ride to go pick up Owen as he so often does. When we got home and settled in, we walked down to the Post Office and then to Papa Jay's and once again, it was closed. Is Papa Jay's closed on Monday? If so, POST YOUR GODDAM HOURS, PAPA JAY. The boys were so disappointed. We came home to the MerMer restaurant and they ordered chips and pickles and Cheerios. Then Owen did some Rolling Stones hallway dancing and I got some good videos but they're too long and I'm so damn stupid (anxiety brain plus age) that I can't figure out how to give you the part I love the most when he did a move to a slow part that he called, "Releasing a bird," which was so graceful but which he sort of hated when he watched the video.
"It was like I was doing ballet!"
"Yes!" I told him. "You let the music tell you what to do. And Mick Jagger does ballet."

Hell. I just tried to download the full thing and it's too long. I've tried to edit via my phone, Quicktime and iPhoto and I can't do it.
Well, trust me.
It was beautiful.

Mr. Moon has gone to auction and so it's just me and Maurice again. Tomorrow I'm going to go to Costco and lunch with Lily and Jessie and Gibson and who knows what all?
And goddam it. I guess I'll call my nurse practitioner's office.

Here's one of the watermelons growing in my garden.



I would say it's probably about the same size as Jessie's baby WHICH IS GOING TO BE BORN IN LESS THAN A MONTH!

I swear to you- I still don't believe it. And yet, it is true as true and soon, once again, life will be redefined and refined and made finer and the world will microscopically shift and change to welcome another baby. A baby born of love and intention and joy.

I breathe out again. I let out the worry and the illogical, ridiculous fear. I try to take in the reality of all that is good in my life which is more than anyone could ever ask for.

I am just one tiny, minuscule particle of energy in this universe which is so vast that the biggest and best of our human minds can't really explain it.
Which I find incredibly comforting.

And soon, there will be sleep, even with its crazy dreams.

All is well-ish.

Love...Ms. Moon

Can't I Just Find A Shaman To Throw Some Chicken Bones?

Well, here it is Monday and I am bathing in the hot red juices of anxiety.
Been awhile since that happened but there you go. Just like a bad penny, it turns up.

I know why this is  happening. The simple fact that I have to get my whatever-they-are hormones renewed. There will be blood work but that doesn't bother me except that when they get into my blood they're going to find something horrible.
That is how I think.
And maybe this is the basis of all of my doctor fears. Letting someone have access to that deep part of me which is covered up by skin and should, according to the most superstitious and reptile parts of me, be left secret and private and unknown.

I don't know. I just know that the idea of sitting in the doctor's office (or in my case, the nurse-practitioner's office) is beyond frightening to me. I have changed care providers so many times, thinking that this next one will surely not be as scary to me. But they all are. They can't help it and it's not their fault. I can remember feeling this exact same way when I was a little child. And remember when I went to the hypnotist to try and get over this?
He freaked me the fuck out and I never went back.

So that's me today. I am grateful that I have the boys later on because they will be a distraction, a grounding to reality.

Meanwhile, I vibrate, I panic in my belly, I marinate in those hot, red juices.





Sunday, August 30, 2015

WTF?

I've done it again. I've almost killed myself, weeding in the hot sun. I took plenty of breaks and drank lots of water but fuck if I don't feel like I might die.
Why do I do this? Why do I get so OCD about things that I lose my mind?
My hands are completely worn out. I have the grip strength of a newborn kitten. My forearms are burning from the twisting, pulling. When I close my eyes, I see nutgrass. My knees hurt, my legs hurt, I'm sunburnt.
I'm crazy. That's all there is to it. Just crazy as a betsy bug, crazy as a loon, crazy as an old southern woman who is crazy.
Cue up the gin bottle and nylon slip with the yellowed underarms.
I'm walking around whimpering and here's the stupidest thing- two days ago I was walking around whimpering because I ached so much and felt so shitty. So then I feel better and I seem determined to make myself sick again.
It's not even time to put in the fall garden yet. The watermelons are still going crazy.
I will say this- all that mulching I did earlier in the year sure does make the weeding easier. That is the truth and I want to do it again. I want to have the prettiest fall and winter garden in the world!
I won't.
It'll look just like it always does with some collards and arugula and a few weird looking lettuces.
I sure would like to grow some more of those purple carrots this year though, along with some beets.

I found an old, rusted plow point in the garden today. I always get a bit of a thrill when I find relics from the past around here. I'm not the first person to sweat on this dirt. I also found a few potatoes sprouting from some we missed when we dug them up. I let them be.

I'm going to go make some supper. I'm going to have to drag Mr. Moon in from the garage. He's been out there all day building deer stands. Yes. Deer stands.
He came to check on me at one point and said, "I love to build things."
"I wish you'd build me a table," I said. "Or an outdoor sink."
"I will," he said. "Some day."

Harrumph.

Love...Ms. Moon





Sunday

It's Sunday therefore I sort of hate everything. Especially the internet. No, wait. I hate ME on the internet. Also my knee. I hate my knee. I think it's about to fall out again. It feels like there's no structural integrity in it. I rolled over last night and it went whompy.
Not good. Not good at all.
I sort of hate Maurice who is still in bed, snuggled UNDER the covers.
I hate that Mr. Moon's about to mow which will be noisy as hell.
I hate that Oliver Sachs died.
I hate that Donald Trump is even a thing.
I hate the cereal I bought in a fit of trying-to-eat-all-healthy-and-shit. Fucking twigs. Do I look like a chimpanzee?
Don't answer that.
I hate that I have to call my NP this week to get my biodenticals renewed. I REALLY hate that.
Etc.

But damn you, Sunday. You have to look like this today.


And give me this:


The first hurricane lily.

Why you have to be so pretty and not too hot? Why you have to give me merry chirping crickets and silly quacking duck? Why you have to make me want to go outside and weed?

Fuck you, Sunday. I will not love you no matter what you do or how you look or smell or sound. I will not. No. 

Love...Ms. Moon




Saturday, August 29, 2015

Romance And Time Travel

It's Saturday night and all is well and all is right, right here in Lloyd. The rain has ceased but the sky's still gray, gentle silver with the setting sun behind the clouds.
It's been a fine and cozy day and there was a nap on clean sheets and I'm thinking my sweetheart is just about all rested up.

The beautiful roses he gave me before he left finally bowed their heads in defeat today and I gathered them and the zinnias that were with them in vases on the hallway altar and took them outside to become one with the earth again. The chickens, who were sitting on the kitchen porch


followed me out to the flower graveyard and petals dropped as we walked. They thought that perhaps I was carrying them a treat, although sadly, I was not.

Perhaps, though, the rose petals inspired thoughts of romance in Mick because he jumped on Camellia and for once, I had the phone-camera at the ready and took this picture.


Breathe in, breathe out. It is done. Luna looks on. 
The way roosters take their hens with their wings spread over all reminds me so much of Dracula, spreading his cloak over himself and his victim. 



The rooster even bites the neck of the hen as he fucks her and no, it is not pretty but as I have said, it is quick. I have a strong feeling that the early directors of the Dracula films grew up around chickens and as a child was terrified and haunted by their sex. 
At least the rooster does not take the hens' souls nor does he leave them as the undead. They merely ruffle and rearrange their feathers and get on with life. 

And so it goes. I hear a hawk calling and Mick has responded with a warning to the ladies to watch out for predators in the sky. I have the soup warming up and have cut new zinnias to replace the dead flowers. 


I will be so sad when they are all gone. There is absolutely nothing that says happy in a visual way like zinnias. When I was cutting them, I noticed that there are even more purple hull peas to pick. Perhaps we have not eaten the last of them quite yet after all. I have a huge yearning to get out in that garden and weed. If tomorrow affords me the possibility, I will do that. 

One more picture. 


The two old sisters, Mabel and Trixie, sitting together in a pot of split-leaf philodendron. How I love their dinosaur eyes, their dinosaur feet, their dinosaur gait, their soft black feathers. If dinosaurs really did have feathers then there is nothing I would love more than to be able to go back, back, back in time to see one, glinting and shimmering and iridescent in the sun which still rises every day on this planet which has seen so much. 

Another wild Saturday night here in North Florida. 

Much love...Ms. Moon



The Miracle Of The Rain

Mr. Moon got home last night and I'm not sure I've ever seen a wearier man. I asked him if he was going to be able to switch back to night-sleep and he said, "Oh yes."
And he did. He slept for ten hours.
This is obviously the sleeping house.
I am so glad to have him home. I think he is glad to be here. He is unpacking and being domestic, fitting himself back into his life in this house with me. It is good to have him here to go and find and get a kiss from. He and Maurice have greeted each other and Maurice is glad to have him back too. She slept between us last night after crunching a frog or a lizard in the corner. I am grateful she did not try to share.

He had planned to cut the grass today. I had wanted to get in the garden to weed.
However, this is happening.

video

Except that in the time it took me to upload the video, it has started raining harder. Perhaps we are already getting bands of rain from Erika which overnight, became a "remnant" as they say.
I imagine the chickens are huddled somewhere dry. This is a bit much, even for the duck.

I keep thinking it's Sunday but it is not. A good day, however, to stay inside, or at least on the porch. I feel better but my hips, which seem to hold all of my illnesses, still hurt but that may be this weather. I am not complaining. I am quite content to stay here on this side of the rain curtains, letting all the doings of the world stay on the other side, my man and my cat close at hand in our cozy world.
For today, at least.
It is good.