Sunday, September 4, 2011
Myths And Truths (I Wouldn't Swap This Blood For Nobody's)
Ah-lah, Sunday morning and I've already had a little cry.
Kathleen e-mailed me last night to tell me that Keith was going to be on CBS Sunday Morning today and then when I woke up at the ungodly hour of nine I had of course forgotten but dear Sarcastic-Bastard-Beloved called me all the way from Buttfuck, Ohio to tell me that he was on and thank goodness, because I would have missed it. That's how bad my memory is these days.
It takes TWO people to tell me something and even then, who knows?
I got the pancakes made before Keith's segment came on and cooked bacon too. I set Mr. Moon's milk in the freezer while I was cooking because he likes his milk cold. When it was Keith's time, Mr. Moon finished up the last six pancakes and served us breakfast and we ate while we watched the old man on the TV.
And yes, it made me cry.
I can't really figure that out or even where this love of the man comes from. By all rights I should be fixated on Paul McCartney or Ringo Starr or Joni Mitchell but no, it's Keith for me, babies. I'm sure it all comes from reading his book but what in hell even made me pick it up at the Costco? I guess that half-hidden face behind the gnarled skull-ringed hand. I don't know.
Well. He did not disappoint. He was his honest self, showing off his lemon trees, talking about whatever the interviewer asked him, gracious as ever, despite the having to repeat stories I know he's repeated a million times. He talked about his son who died at two months old. How he felt so guilty because he'd "left his post," was off touring with the Stones.
My first husband left to tour Michigan (haha!) when our first baby was four days old. Gone for a month. I am not kidding you. I was twenty-one years old and taking care of a newly-born all by myself and in some ways, it was the best month of my life.
I am not drawing any parallels here. I am just saying that yes, I understand how it could happen. Guitar players left their posts. They did. They do. Women stay behind. Babies thrive or not.
No, no. That's not what I want to talk about.
Tropical Depression Lee is pelting the Louisiana coast with rain I guess, and we are getting gentle patters on and off. It's supposed to be a 90% chance of precipitation today and lord, lord, we do need it. I wonder if we'll lose power, have to walk around with those silly headlights. The Popular Power-Outage-Dork-Look. Maybe. I spent some time in the garden yesterday, weeding around the beans I've planted, the late tomatoes we put in. Mr. Moon raked up leaves and we mulched. There so much more to do and if the real rain holds off, I suppose I'll do some of it.
The chickens are out, wandering the yard. As I worked in the garden yesterday, they kept me company, not in the garden but right on the other side of the fence. Here are my chicken's names:
Elvis, the rooster. Dolly, Miss Bob, and Mabel, the original hens. Ozzie, Sharon, Dahlia, Flopsy, and Trixie, the new hens. Ozzie came named and so of course there had to be a Sharon and Dahlia because she is black, black, black, and Flopsy because her comb flops over and Trixie because I like that name.
Such beautiful eggs they are giving me. I put two in the pancakes this morning. I have not used that giant one yet. I am going to boil it for Mr. Moon to take in his lunchbox for a mid-morning snack and I like the idea of him holding that huge egg in his huge hand and cracking it and laughing about how much egginess is there.
Sunday. Always a hard day for me, no matter what. Look- people who think you can just "get over" things like childhood sexual abuse need to come live in my skin on a Sunday. I don't wake up every Sunday and think, "Jeez. I was sexually abused on Sundays. I think I'll dwell on that, I think I'll be all depressed and moody today."
Nah. I just wake up and there it is.
Doesn't take two people to remind me. Just my own skin.
Well. Sunday it is and I'll take it. Keith got me crying and making pancakes got me going and my heart feels so full of things and many of them too sweet to bear and it all gets mixed up in my blood and I sort of want to scream and I sort of want to just quietly weep and I sort of want to sigh deeply and I sort of want to hold my man so tightly that he has to ask me to stop and I sort of want to go weed and I sort of want to lay in the bed and read and I sort of want to just sit in a chair outside and be as still as I can be, not trying to do or see or feel or hear but just taking it in like a leaf, like a rock, like a moss-covered stone which does not roll.
The dogs want some bacon grease. The dishes want their faces washed. The earth wants water. The frogs do too and they croak to remind us of that fact. The flowers want their picture taken. That I can do.
That is Sunday morning in Lloyd. At least in this house, at least in this heart.
Watch the video if you want to hear the real true deal on one Keith myth.
I have licked the ashes of two friends off of my fingers. I did not snort them. Just licked. I have never had my blood replaced and neither did Keith.
Ah-lah. Good morning.