Thursday, May 31, 2012

Well. If I dropped some food on the floor on this porch I would not think twice about picking it up and eating it now. This is not to say it looks clean. It does not. Maybe a little cleaner. But, as we say, that is some CLEAN dirt.

I mopped twice, starting from one end one time and the other end the next. Both times with Fabuloso and bleach and believe me- you can mix those two things and they will not kill you. Nor will Fabuloso mixed with white vinegar which I often use for cleaning but the porch cried out for bleach.
Believe me.

It rained hard and fast and then it went away leaving the air cooler but no drier. Mr. Moon was going to paint something the other day and the instructions informed him to only paint in 60% humidity or less. I said, "Well then, you are never going to be able to paint." And it's true. If the humidity here is only 60% we feel as if we are in Arizona. We live in a rain forest of sorts and there are benefits and there are drawbacks.

The drawbacks are that you can't properly paint or make meringues but the benefits are these trees. I look out right now and see all of the green and it's worth the trade-off.

I feel a bit discombobulated. With Mr. Moon gone, my timetable is off. My checklist is useless. It is Thursday, not Friday, it is not time to start dinner for my husband. I can eat leftovers and I will.

I think I might actually make a martini and then make a project of the kitchen. What? You don't drink a martini and clean your kitchen?
Oh well.
It beats going out to bars and drinking martinis and making eye-contact with suspicious characters.
Not that I have ever done anything like that.
Of course.

Seriously. I have not. Back in the days when I used to go to bars, I never drank anything stronger than a Budweiser. I was single. Making eye contact with suspicious strangers was not a sin.

It would be now but quite frankly, it would have to a VERY suspicious stranger who would make eye contact with me these days. Plus, I'd have to put on a bra.


What I really wish is that someone would make me a cheese and fruit plate.

And then I would sit with my martini and my cheese and fruit plate and watch this video again which Freddy sent me the link to.

It has Bill Murray in it.

And martinis.

Just passing on the love.

Speaking of which...

Love...Ms. Moon

I lay down to nap and fell asleep and thunder woke me up and I thought maybe it was someone in the house or under the house, rattling pipes and pine wood until I realized that no, it was thunder and then I got up even though I'd barely slept and the rain started coming down and the sun was shining in such a way through the trees that it looked like silver pouring off the tin roof and down into the elephant ears and aren't I glad I didn't sleep through that?

The Path To Happiness Lies In Suffering. At Least A Little Bit

I have been a Pretty Good Girl this week, staying out of trouble and getting in my walks and generally living life in a normal, sane, sober fashion and so of course, this morning I got up and could barely walk.

Oh please. Give me a break.

I've been taking good walks for most of my life. It's my way of exercise and I don't give a shit what anyone says, it's good exercise and science is starting to prove that and as I said a few weeks ago, the odds of injury are about as low as you can get with exercise, and it's aerobic if you walk fast and it's weight-bearing and it's cheap and above all, for me, it's what I will do and so there you go.

Plus, as I have also pointed out more than once, it satisfies my inborn Puritan need to suffer, especially in this heat. Honestly, I think I spend most of my time out there in an out-of-body state of mind, listening to my book on CD and a bear could probably cross my tracks and I wouldn't even know it. One step in front of the other, just keep on going, a walk is a controlled fall, and I just don't fall and that is how I walk.

I did notice that the blackberries are coming on. I think it would behoove me to start taking a plastic bag with me to gather what I can although that involves stopping so I'll probably do something completely insane which is to DRIVE to where the berries are, get out of the car and pick and then drive home.

So sue me.

I do usually stop to pee in the woods and I'm sure that's where I keep picking up these ticks so I'm probably killing myself by exercising but what are you going to do? Bathe in carbolic acid, I suppose.
No, no. Of course not.

Anyway, I'm back from my walk. I told Mr. Moon this morning that I could barely walk so why was I going to take a walk? and he said, "Good question."
See above: Need to suffer.

And he has just driven out of the yard with the boat and so I am alone here with the dogs and the chickens and the semi-feral cat who lives in the flowerbed and who only sighs with deep resignation when the chickens eat her cat food.

I have absolutely NOTHING I simply must accomplish today which is a sort of bliss. I not only have that Esquire Magazine, I have the New Yorker summer fiction issue AND the latest Oxford American which is so packed with good writing that to give it its due you need to spend as much time on it as you would a novel. I am also reading a real novel with my eyes and one with my ears and so I have plenty to do in the leisure category. However, I am going to have the Opera House Jezabels over for a pizza and martini ladies' night out on Saturday and so of course I am suddenly hugely aware of the mess and disorganization and plain old filth of my house. They don't really give a rat's ass but it's certainly a good excuse to at least do something about the kitchen and I am thinking it would be a good day to really do a good sweeping and mopping of my back porch. Owen pointed out two dog pees on the porch to me yesterday and I did wipe them up but let's just say that if something fell on the floor on this porch even I would think twice about picking it up and eating it.
That's pretty bad.

There are also tiny black sugar ants all over it and they are stinging me as we speak and mopping isn't going to do a damn thing about that but maybe I'll kill a few billion or so.

Don't you just want to come live in Lloyd? I know you do.

Last night I was out here on the porch typing away and there was a giant roach-like looking creature on the window sill right beside me but I knew it wasn't a roach because it had HUGE antenna (what IS that, Syd?) and he wasn't bothering me and Mr. Moon came out and said, "Do you see that thing?"
"Yes," I said. "It is keeping me company." I was thinking of that poetry-writing cockroach, Archie, friend of Don Marquis. I had to look that shit up, y'all.

Anyway, it's almost noon and I have SUFFERED and I am still suffering and if I do mop anything, it is going to be a slow process. And I'm going to take a nap today or know the reason why and the reason why better be a natural disaster which destroys my bed.

I'm pretty happy.

Love...Ms. Moon

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Well, I did what I wanted to do today which was to go to town and see my boys.

The picture of Gibson is really of his mama whom I haven't gotten a good picture of lately. It's all been about the baby and honestly, I just have to say that I am astounded, over and over and over again at what an amazing mother Lily is.
That doesn't sound quite right, does it?
But still, you have to put it all in perspective- she is MY baby and as such, it seems like only a few years ago when she was just a child and now, here she is with these two boys and she is vastly patient and endlessly loving and she enjoys her children so much! I watched her playing a balloon game with Owen tonight and it just made me so happy.
She adores them, those sons of hers and I can tell that she doesn't take one thing about them for granted and yet, at the same time, she is completely relaxed and easy-going with them.
She is the mother I always wished I were.
She mothers from the heart and the gut and she's smart about it all and does her research but she doesn't overthink every damn thing. God, I just admire her so much.

And you can tell what sort of a mother she is by the way the boys are.
Owen is a love. Okay, he can be a Power Ranger and threaten you with his Ninja Power but then he turns around and hugs and kisses you. Several times today he just collapsed on me in the most snuggly way and it was heaven. He brushed my hair for me. He fed me chicken tenders from his plate with his fork at supper tonight. He is a loving, generous soul. And he's funny.

When I changed his diaper today, he turned over, revealing his tushie and said, "Put a diaper on my big butt."
Okay, yes. He is ready to potty train. But not quite or he would be. No one's freaking out about it and he isn't either. I think that one of these days he's going to say "enough is enough," and that will be that with the diapers.

And Gibson? Well. What a darling that boy is. He gurgles and he coos and he smiles and he grins and when you stick your tongue out at him, he sticks his tongue out at you. He sleeps for at least six hours straight at night. I had HEARD that there were babies who did such things but I certainly never had one. He is the perfect bundle to hold. He wants to stand up in your lap and he does, his tiny strong legs like little tree trunks and he wobbles and sways but he refuses to sit down. He is ten weeks old and I swear, he's almost ready to sit up by himself. I can't be in his presence without wanting to hold him, without kissing that face over and over and over again which makes him smile.
I mean- please.

And so that's what I did today. I saw my grandboys. We went to the Costco and Owen was not a wild child but a fairly well-behaved child, and he insisted on getting cherry tomatoes and he wanted his mama and me to go into the lawn shed with him and we did and his eyes got big and it was sort of magical to be hidden from sight in that great warehouse of a store. We ate everything offered to us and we bought none of it but we did buy almonds and the tomatoes and mushrooms and yogurt, too.
And then Owen came home with me and we played some cards and he watered the plants

 and we did this and we did that and then we drove back to town and went to supper with Bop and Lily and Gibson. Jason was at work and it was good to get Lily out of the house and we loved it, being with her and those boys and I didn't have to cook and no one had to clean up and so it was a lovely thing.

It's been a long, good day. I have some cookies in the oven for Mr. Moon to take fishing tomorrow and laundry is finishing up. I am looking forward to bed and a book, as always.
It's almost shameful how much I look forward to that. The bed and the book.

And tomorrow Mr. Moon is leaving for a few days for that fishing and Lily and Jason are taking the boys down to Satellite Beach to see Jason's great-grandparents and it will just be me here. And that will be perfect too, knowing that soon enough, my loves will be coming home again.

And I will be right here, ready to love and be loved by all of them.

And Circles Will Be Unbroken

Yesterday when I said that rain smelled like the way Willie Nelson sounds when he sings, I could have added something Bob Dylan said which was that Doc Watson's guitar playing sounds like water falling.

I just knew that my words about old-time music were going to come back and bite me because honestly- I do love some of it and I learned to love it from Doc Watson whom I first saw play in Denver, Colorado sometime around 1973. I saw him again in Tallahassee a few years later and he was blind and his beloved son, Merle, was always there to play with him and bring him onstage, Doc holding on to his son's shoulder to find his chair and sit down and then the magic began.

Here's a video from 1979 and it pretty much captures the way it was.

Doc died yesterday. He'd had a fall and they did surgery and well, I guess he just didn't have what it took to come back from that at the age of 89. A good age to die, especially if you've continued to do what you love to do and what brings the world joy right up to the end.

Doc had considered not playing anymore after his son Merle died at the age of 36 in 1985, but eventually, he picked up his guitar and somehow, even without Merle's strong shoulder, found his way back to the stage. He memorialized his son with a festival he hosted every year in North Carolina called MerleFest and it's the biggest acoustic music festival in the world and many of the musicians I love so much have played there. In recent years, Doc had been playing with Merle's son, his grandson Richard, and I know that must have made him so proud.

Doc was married to the same woman for sixty-five years, y'all. His darling Rosa Lee and I'm thinking about her today. How in the world do you accept the death of someone you've been through that much of life with? I have no idea.

So yes, I'm thinking about Rosa Lee today and I'm thinking about how homesick I was in Denver, Colorado as a girl of eighteen who had always thought she hated "country" music and how she felt when someone played her Will The Circle Be Unbroken, an album made by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band with a score of older musicians and how true and fine Doc's voice and playing was. That girl cried and knew she had to get home, eventually, back to the south where the trees grew tall and music like that was born.

In a very interesting twist of fate, Bob Dylan was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom yesterday and somehow, this all fits in and the circle will be unbroken and continues to be so.

If you had told me in 1973 that in my lifetime I would live to see a black president put a prestigious award around the neck of a 72-year old Bob Dylan on the same day that Doc Watson died, well, hell. I don't even know what I would have thought but it would probably have been something like, "Far out."
Which, actually, would have been pretty appropriate.

Look at Bob. You have to wonder what goes on in the mind behind those shades. I've listened to all his music for most of my life, seen him play three times and read his autobiography and I have no idea at all and neither do you and neither does anyone else. I hear that Obama had to coax him up to give him the award. "Come on, Bob."
Which is also appropriate.

All of this serves to remind me that I am one grateful woman to have lived during the times I have. Times when music exploded and genres got mixed and blues and bluegrass and rock and roll and classical, too, all came together in different forms and people like Doc Watson played Bob Dylan tunes and Bob Dylan sang with Johnny Cash and Keith Richards worshipped Chuck Berry and BB King came into world-wide prominence when he played in 1968 at the Newport Folk Festival and he, too, made me want to go home to the south and the south is where I am and most likely will always be, an old hippie woman who has had some mighty fine teachers, not least among them Bob Dylan and Doc Watson and yes, BB King who is still playing at the age of 87 and who pointed out that nobody loves me but my mama and she could be jiving me too.

And then of course, you have to throw in the fact that the Beatles and Jimi Hendrix were alive and playing on Planet Earth during my lifetime and well...

But here I am in Lloyd at the age of fifty-seven, banging this out on a computer and Flopsy has laid her egg and wants back out of the coop to be with her flock and the day is proceeding on and I need to get busy so I can get to town to see my grandchildren.

Rest in peace, Doc.
Keep on playing Bob and BB and all the rest of you pickers and players and singers and know that you are doing god's work, doing exactly what you were put here on earth to do, to minister to the sad and lonely, the misplaced and displaced, to bring joy and tears and to make us dance.

Hell. For all I know, it's music that keeps the particles of this universe going.
They've kept my world going and that's for sure.

Doc, too.

Nothing left to say except, Thank-you.

And I mean it from the bottom of my heart which, like the circle, has been broken and unbroken many, many times and most likely will continue to be so and I will be sustained always through the music.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Riches, Part Whatever

For some reason, I just made a Sunday dinner for a Tuesday night. I boiled and mashed potatoes from the garden, sliced up our own cucumbers and tiny gold pear tomatoes with Vidalia onions, cooked yard-long and pinto beans together, having just picked my first yard-longs today. I made some Tennessee grass-fed cube steaks with onions and mushroom gravy and damn, if I didn't even make a few biscuits.

It was all mighty fine.

Then I went out to shut up the chickens for the night and instead of figuring out where all the teenagers are perched and putting them into their little shelter, I am going to let them roost where they are tonight inside of the coop. Here's some pictures. 

The two smallest teens were on a high perch in the corner. That's them. You think one's a rooster? One's a hen? We'll just have to wait and see who crows and who lays. But I'm thinking...

The other four were huddled up on top of the shelter where Flopsy is still sleeping with her baby. That's Curly Sue in the middle. She's no banty. I don't think that big black chick beside her is either. I'm calling that one Bertha.

They're so sleepy when it gets dark. They're almost in a coma and they let me pat them which brings me great pleasure. They're so soft, those babies.

Now here's Elvis in his little nook in the hen house. He sleeps alone these days and maybe that's because it's hot and maybe it's because THE HENS JUST NEED A BREAK!

I stroke his beautiful feathers too. He fusses a little but he lets me.

These are some of my older hens. They gave me five beautiful eggs today, those sleepy old girls.

Anyway, I shut everybody up and told 'em good-night and came on in. Mr. Moon's watching that Hatfield and McCoy thing. I have watched some of it but I just know it's not going to come out well. Too much shootin' for my taste.

It's been a good day here on Planet Earth, for me at least. I sure am grateful for that and for all the good food out of the garden and my funny chickens and the eggs they give me and for my husband who tells me he loves me all the time and thanks me for every meal I make, whether it's a Sunday dinner or not.

And oh yeah- that Esquire Magazine which came in today's mail. Did you know that Bill Murray has six sons? SIX???? I didn't. Until today.

I'm full and tired and I got some work done and tomorrow I'm going to go see my grandboys.

Yeah. Feeling pretty okay. Feeling really rich.

Night, y'all.

Sweet dreams.

People Wonder

Why I get Esquire Magazine.
Let me illustrate.

 Lord. That face. Plus- who knows? Maybe I'll some day need to be a man. These things DO happen and if they happen to me, I'll be ready.

They can call it fiction for men but fuck that. 

 Excuse me? Yes! I think I'll join you. Packing my nightie now.

My boyfriend. It's not a big secret.

Page 48.

And then, well...

This doesn't hurt my feelings either. It's not JUST his face. Another boyfriend of mine.

Plus- recipes AND sex advice?
Okay, I can live without the man's fashion stuff. I mean really- that's a whole world I care nothing about.

But bang for your buck for good manly writing and stuff?

Esquire. Every month.
Makes me happy.

Even the pictures of the women with bosoms. Who doesn't love a beautiful woman with nice bosoms?

If I ever DO need to become a man, I already have that one figured out.

Yours truly...Ms. Moon

Issues Of A Problematic Nature

Be suspicious of any and all who claim to know The Truth whether they are talking about the Resurrection or alien abduction or how best to grow a tomato or karma or anything having to do with achieving-inner-peace-and-tranquility whether through medication, meditation or avoiding constipation.

Examine the evidence carefully because for some reason, some people just want you to believe whatever it is they cling to. The more the merrier on the life-raft!

Meanwhile, sharks circle looking for the tenderest toes and none of us, not one, is going to avoid the end.


I don't think so.

Blood smells like iron and salt. Rain smells like the way Willie Nelson sings. The ocean smells like our first memory and fear smells like something a dog can use against you. I hear that Willie Nelson's joint-roller uses a Frisbee to roll one fat one after another for his boss. I wonder who the first person to use a Frisbee to roll a joint on was.

I remember watching a friend of mine roll a joint once. She wasn't using a Frisbee but was just using the kitchen table. She put all of her attention on that task. The paper just so, the pot crumbled and soft, just right, laid out there on the paper. She rolled it up, licked it, lit it. I wonder why that memory stays with me. Maybe because it was an act of such utter concentration. I probably learned more from watching her roll that joint than I did in many semesters' worth of lectures in a classroom.

I didn't mean to talk about pot. One thing will lead to another.

I think people get stuck on one thing and therein is a problem. Maybe not THE problem, but certainly a problem.

Life is not all about one thing and no one thing can explain it all although scientists are working on finding one thing that will explain it all and when they do, I'll eat my words. Meanwhile, I find particles of truth in almost everything and so it all continues to be interesting and I study the chickens and I study the rain and I study the words that come from other people's minds and I study the way the resurrection fern lays across the oak branch and the way all life came from the sea which is why the ocean smells like our first memory.

I think.

Here's one thing I know: anything they advertise on the television is NOT SOMETHING YOU NEED.


When was the last time you saw a TV commercial for love? I am not talking about Christian Mingle dot com here, either. If your god needs a web site to help you find the love he wants you to find, there might be a problem.

Or maybe not.

Look- I don't know The Truth. I don't have The Answer. I sure don't believe in The Secret.

I probably don't even ask the right questions. But I keep asking them anyway.

Here's another thing I think I believe- if a religion requires you to constantly pray to your god for faith, meaning, you need divine help in believing what your mind (your own good mind) tells you might possibly be bullshit, then that, too, might be a problem.

Okay. That's enough. It's one of those days where I WISH there were more answers but since there aren't, I'm just going to keep on moving and try to knit up the tangled edges of what I know I can do something about. Some days, that's all you can do. Even as the great fish swim in the ocean, closer to the source of it all than I will ever be, even as particles do things I cannot comprehend, even as the universe continues to expand and contract as if it were a being breathing, even as Willie Nelson brushes his long gray hair and straps on his guitar and sings about blue eyes crying in the rain, even as this day continues what it started a very long time ago, I will do the tiny things I can to keep my mind from flying so far away that I cannot find it among the stars and I will keep my feet firmly planted on this illusion of stillness.

Monday, May 28, 2012

I've Looked At Frogs From Both Sides Now

Gawd. What a day. 

It did rain. About fifteen minutes after I got in the garden. I decided it was just a band of rain and would go away and continued to work until I was black with mud and realized it was raining for real and came in the house, soaked and filthy.

I haven't done a damn thing since then.

I didn't want to work in the garden anyway. My poor foot swelled up like a little pink loaf of bread and my gardening shoe hurt it and besides that, my hand began to itch as if the yellow fly toxin had gotten into my system and was trying to work its way out through other body parts.

I took a non-drowsy allergy pill and they lied, they lied. It made me drowsy.
Or maybe it was the rain or maybe it was the air pressure or maybe it was Jessie leaving but I WAS drowsy and I still am, or maybe not drowsy but leaden. And mean.

I feel mean. I don't know why. I'm not angry at anyone. I just feel mean and unsettled and the rain did not one thing to soothe me. 

Oh well. 

I took a picture of a little green tree frog that was in the front window.

Then I came in and took his picture from the other side.

Look at his clever little suction cup fingers and toes. He didn't stay long. He's gone now. I hope he got a full belly of bugs and went on home, wherever home is.

Toad Hall? 
Frog Hall.

Flopsy spent all day with the other chickens but a few minutes ago, she began to call to be let in to the coop with her baby so I guess she's not quite done with being a mother yet. I think this is so interesting, watching how she is doing this separation thing. How does she know how to do this? Well, it's in her blood and her little chicken-bones. She knows. She just knows.
I admire her, which I guess is silly because she's only doing what she is supposed to do.
It would not be the first time an animal has been anthropomorphized and thus, made noble in human eyes, doing merely what instinct tells them to do. 

They had a cook-out at the church next door. Yesterday they pressure-washed the outside of it. Even in the rain you could smell the meat grilling and I could hear people laughing. It was a nice thing. And even that did not really make me feel better but it did not make me feel worse, either.

So I'm cooking beans and rice and cornbread and have a salad and we'll eat our supper. Mr. Moon is pretty excited to watch The Hatfields and McCoys on the History Channel tonight. Kevin Costner and Bill Paxton. Might be good. 

Damn, I make pretty cornbread.

I think maybe I'm starting to perk up, thinking about cornbread and honey. 

Tomorrow might be nice after all this rain. 

Let's hope. Let's all hope for a good day and greener grass right here on our side of the fence. 

It could happen. I promise.

Memorial Day

Elizabeth said it better than I could. 

AND Our Governor Looks Like A Dick

Not only does Tallahassee have the most phallic and ridiculous state capitol buildings in the entire fucking universe, it apparently is not showing Moonrise Kingdom yet.

There goes my entire day.

Strange Day

Bad start to a strange day. The electricity went off right before we got up, right before the coffee got made  and it's that crazy sort of weather that makes you all itchy and sticky because Subtropical Storm Beryl is somewhere in the vicinity or at least in the state, playing havoc with the air pressure and sucking all of the energy out and away, leaving us flat and drained of all energy.

All of my tick bites and all of my chigger bites have come together in a strange concert of intense itching and the air is alternately completely still and then suddenly gathering itself and moving, swishing the leaves in an ominous dance.

I called the electric company and the nice lady apologized profusely, which they always do but at least she didn't ask me if there was anything else she could do because that always makes me want to yell something like, "Sure! Come on over and wash my windows!" I mean- what in hell CAN she do besides report the outage and of course they already know there's an outage. She told me they were looking for the source and apologized again.

But before I'd hardly gotten off the phone, the lights were back on and the percolator Mr. Moon had set on the gas stove had almost finished its burping and gurgling and so all of a sudden, all riches were restored, lights, fans, and best of all, coffee.

Still, the itchiness continues and yes, it is sticky but at least I can see in my kitchen. I cooked bacon and French toast out of bread I made yesterday which I let rise too long and so, after baking, resembled giant hot dog buns but is making nice French toast, golden yellow from our eggs.

Yesterday Mr. Moon spent hours putting up smaller wire around the bottom of the coop so that the babies can't get out and hopefully, we shall preserve one of Flopsy's chicks, at least. The teenagers, too, who are still six in number.

Last night was chaotic and both boys were not in the best of moods. For some reason Gibson decided to be a little bitchy and gritchy and we all took turns rocking him and trying to soothe him. Owen had had a five-minute nap in the car and was a demanding little man. When they got to the house and he woke up he informed me that it was a BIRTHDAY and that HANK was coming which cracked me up. But then he spent most of the night trying to force May to play with him and she did. Jessie came in from the festival and is here now and will be leaving in awhile to back to Asheville and my heart can hardly stand these comings-in and goings-out. But. It is the way.

Speaking of, Flopsy laid an egg this morning, first one in forever, and immediately demanded out of the coop. This is traumatic. Her baby chirped and chirped, sadly, pathetically, calling for her mother, and Flopsy went back and forth between the coop and the flock for awhile but then girded her loins and chose the flock. Does this mean she is done being a mother? Poor baby chick whose siblings are all gone and now she has been abandoned by her mother too.

Nature is cruel.

As we ate our breakfast, Jessie pointed out that maybe it would be easier for humans if the parents were the ones to move away, rather than the kids. The kid turns sixteen and the parents move to Boca. Or something like that.

I don't know. All I know is that it's a gray day and we might go to town to see Moonrise Kingdom with Hank and May and that thought cheers me some. I hardly ever go see a movie and this is one I've been wanting to see for ages and ages and ages.

And then we'll come out of the theater and see what the weather is doing, shaking our heads at the reality of the day after having spent a couple of hours in the conjured atmosphere of the movie theater and a damn yellow-fly bit my foot when we were eating our breakfast outside and those bites itch so much that the tick and chigger bites are no longer claiming my attention. In fact, my swollen foot is driving me mad and I can hardly write this. I sort of want to just overdose on Benadryl and go back to bed and sleep through this day but one doesn't really do things like that. Not for a few yellow-fly bites and a mean-skyed day.

Nope. Not even for that.

Jessie is loading her car.

We go on.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

I am so tired. I will let pictures tell the story.

For Grady Doctor And Her Mama

That is what a Key Lime pie should look like, naked and pre-chilled.

It takes a good deal of restraint not to just grab a spoon and forego either chilling or topping. I feel sure that this has been done before, although never by me. I swear.

I do not recommend it. I can only assume that the resulting stomach ache would not be worth it.

Lost And Found And Key Lime Pie

Well, as promised, here's my recipe for key lime pie.
Can't read it?
I know.
I'll give it to you further down the page. I will.

It's Sunday morning and I'm not in an especially good mood. It's hot already. I'm sorry. I should either quit talking about the heat or move to Vermont. Maybe Alaska. I don't know.

Subtropical Storm Beryl is supposed to hit the east coast of Florida tonight, maybe, and that should bring us some rain. I'm hoping. I don't even know what a subtropical storm is and I think they just invented this shit when global warming moved the hurricane season up a month.
I could be wrong.
I probably am.

Okay- here's a mystery: Where did the giant Pence in my wallet come from? I always keep a few pesos in there because, well, what if I suddenly find myself magically transported to Mexico?
(I wish.)
But a little while back I suddenly discovered that coin you see above in the change part of my wallet. I don't even know what country it's from. Great Britain? Y'all help me out here. On the back it says, "One Pence" and "1962".
Don't you think I'd remember when I came into possession of this pence?
I must have consciously put it in there. I really don't think that the Pence Fairy did it.
But I swear- I do not remember.

I also keep finding silverware in my silverware drawer that is not mine. Several spoons, a knife.
I'm used to things disappearing but what's up with this sudden and mysterious appearing?

Am I losing my mind?

Quite possibly.

I feel certain that someone is going to read this and think, "I gave Mary that coin. And she doesn't remember. God. She is really losing it." So if you gave it to me, go ahead and tell me. I'll laugh and say, "Oh yeah. NOW I remember." I'll be lying.

As to the spoons and knife- well, wherever they came from, I can sure use the spoons. My own spoons have disappeared at an alarming rate until I am down to about two which every mother can understand. Spoons are the universal default tool for children and their projects.
So- to whoever left those spoons in my kitchen- Thanks!
Also, for the pence. I have a slight feeling that maybe one of you DID give it to me. If so, go ahead and remind me. It's sort of magical to think that it just appeared in my wallet but it's sort of driving me crazy, too.

All right. I better go make those pies. The recipe demands that they be served chilled.

Chilled. What a beautiful word.

Happy Sunday, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Key Lime Pie
(original recipe)

3 eggs, separated
1 can sweetened condensed milk
(Like Eagle Brand)
1/3 cup sugar
3/4 cup key lime juice
1- 9 inch pie shell

Beat egg yolks. Add sweetened condensed milk. Beat again. Add lime juice. Beat 'til smooth.
Put in pie shell. 
Make meringue with whites and sugar. Top pie. 
375 degrees until brown.
Serve chilled.


My family likes their key lime pies made without the meringue but topped with whipped cream. Also, they like a graham-cracker crumb crust instead of a regular pastry pie shell. Or, sometimes, a ginger-snap crumb crust. That's what I'm going to make today. You could even cheat like crazy and buy one of those pre-made graham-cracker crumb crusts but you can also buy pre-smushed graham cracker crumbs in a box. You mix those up with some sugar and melted butter and bake them for a little while. Don't ask me how long. I'm not here to tell you how to make graham-cracker-crumb crusts or ginger-snap-crumb crusts. Look that shit up. 
Now. Here's a problem. They do not advise making anything with raw eggs any more and if you bake the pie to brown the meringue, you will supposedly kill off the salmonella or whatever evil thing lurks in raw eggs and if you don't, if you use the whipped cream (and you better use real whipped cream, okay? not any fake shit) you are not baking the pie. I am of the opinion that the lime juice will kill the nasty bugs if there are any in there but I don't want anyone suing me for advising them to use raw eggs and then getting sick. So. DO NOT BAKE AT YOUR OWN RISK!


And one more thing: If you can't find fresh key limes (which are smaller and rounder than regular limes) you can use any limes. Look for the yellowest ones when you buy them because limes are not really ripe when they are dark green. In reality, ripe limes are sort of yellowish. The riper, the juicier. 
Got that?

This is an exquisite pie. Supposedly it was invented down in the Florida Keys back in the olden days when they had lots of chickens and thus eggs and lots of lime trees but no fresh milk. (Don't ask me.) 
Whatever. It is pretty much to die for and I do not believe there is anyway to make it better by the addition of anything fancy. And it's butt-easy to make with the exception of the work of squeezing the limes. You CAN use bottled lime juice but it's not going to taste the same or as good.
So buy limes and squeeze them.

No. You cannot use fat-free sweetened condensed milk. If you want to save some calories and fat, do the meringue instead of the whipped cream. I am not sure when meringue-topped pies fell in favor but they seem to have. I personally think there is nothing so handsome as a tall peaked and browned meringue and I like the way it tastes, too, but not everyone does.

I understand this.
I am cool with this.

Just sayin'.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

It's The Heat

In the upper nineties today and everything is dry as dead bones on the desert floor and we move the sprinkler around from fig tree to fig tree, to mulberry tree to flowers. The babies are gone, the hawk's very life in danger and he doesn't even know that, Mr. Moon's gun is by the door.
No. He will not shoot him. He just really, really wants to.

Hot. Did I say hot yet? When I woke up this morning my hips hurt like old, burn-ache and it took me hours to move it on out and I moved slowly through this hot day and dried the clothes outside-three trips to hang, or maybe four or five, three to bring them all in. This could take all day. Almost did.

So hot. The AC is on and it rattles like huge machine breath, taking in hot hair, breathing out cold.

It feels like sin I can't live without.

I got dressed to go to the store and looked down to see a fat tick stuck to the top of my bosom. How many ticks have I taken off of me this year? Like Owen says, "Two and two." This is the number more than "One and one." The other day when I tried to get him to take a nap he pointed to the clock by the bed and said, "See? Time get up!"He cannot fool me.

Hot. Dry. Ache. A mother chicken screams for her babies. A day where nothing really clicks or falls into place without jiggling and adjusting. Well, except for that.

We slept cool on clean sheets for one hour's nap, got up and moved the sprinklers, got up and made a coffee, got up and this day goes on but my god.

Tomorrow I will take the four ripe avocados I bought today, cut them down the middle, scoop out the green, soft meat, mash it with tomatoes, garlic, cilantro, lime juice. Tomorrow I will squeeze limes and more limes and mix the juice with canned sweetened condensed milk and eggs and make pies. Tomorrow the children will come over and Mr. Moon will cook fish and I will cook okra and tomatoes. We take from every culture- the African, the Conch, the sea, the Mexican, we take and we fix and we will eat and Owen will put the candles in the pie for May and we will light them.
We will sing.

Oh. I need to go to the sprinklers on in the garden. The tomatoes refuse to fatten, the beans refuse to swell.

I don't blame them.

It is summer in Florida. It is hot.


Yes, they are beautiful and yes, they are protected but if I had had a gun I would have shot one just now.
Stole another baby.
Mr. Moon actually chased it through the woods and across the tracks. He tried. No way, though.

Flopsy is so upset, the other, last, remaining baby is traumatized. We've got them shut up now. Barn door after the bull escapes, etc.

I know the hawk was just hungry. I know a baby chicken must be the tastiest of treats. I know.

Such a fucked-up feeling day.

Unintended Lie

Well, I lied last night. We lost one of the Flopsy's babies yesterday and didn't realize it until this morning when they all got up.
I'd gotten a phone message from Ms. Fleur while we were at the festival that there was a big chicken ruckus going on. Guess that was it. Now whether the baby got snatched from the sky or ground, we do not know and probably never will. But it's sad. It was the little blond-faced one, they one we called Marilyn.

Ah, not a good beginning to a day.

Friday, May 25, 2012

We Are Home And The Chickens Are Alive

Can I just say that the dirt at the Stephen Foster Folk Culture Center State Park (they just couldn't come up with a long-enough name, obviously) is blacker than the dirt in Lloyd and I did not think that was possible.
My feet are, well, black.

It was fine. The Cicada Ladies were a treat. They're so darn cute. Plus, they can really play and sing. It's so cool to walk around with my fine, tall daughter and have people stop her and say, "Y'all were great! When are you playing again?"
And so forth.

So we watched them play and it was hot. Everywhere I went I heard people say, "Why do they have this festival when it's so damn hot? We should get up a petition to have it in the fall."
Well, they should. And yes, there were some actual real bathrooms that were tiled and had air conditioning. Awesome! I used one Porta Potty and it was disgusting as it always is.

Thank god I'm not camping there. That's all I can say. It wasn't unbearable because every now and then a nice wind would come along and there are lots and lots of trees. But still. It was hot. And I have spent  nights sweating in a tent and sobbing silently into my pillow. Oh yes, I have. And I am not much interested in doing it again.

Jessie and her daddy and I walked around after they played at three and I even bought a silver chain for my silver things I like to have hanging around my neck. A silver heart locket that May gave me, a tiny framed picture of me and Owen when he was a baby, and a little Virgin of Guadalupe that I got in Mexico once. It's a nice chain made with links like a chain should be made. It didn't cost much, either. And I got a little giftie for May, too, since it's her birthday time and all of that. Mr. Moon and Jessie got ice cream and I got iced coffee, none of that fancy bullshit milkshake stuff either, just iced coffee. Thank-you. And before we left we got an excellent dinner. Two baked-chicken and rice meals with collards and field peas AND cornbread. The ladies from the New Jerusalem Baptist Church made the food and sold it to us. Jessie and I split mine and it was so good and I'm so glad she split it with me because I was as full as I could be when I was done. Six bucks a meal. That's a good deal, y'all. Sweet tea or lemonade a dollar more.

I should have taken a picture but I didn't.

We ran into the woman who midwifed me with both Jessie and Lily. She's a musician too. Of course. It sure was good to see her. She'll probably pick with Jessie some in the campground tonight. She plays bass and has a deep, woman voice, true and strong. I have known her for thirty-eight years and she looks EXACTLY the same. How is this even possible?

So it was good. But boy, was I ready to come home. I don't know how in the whole world I can feel so out of place in a down-home, dirty foot situation like that one was, but leave it to me- I can accomplish it. As I texted Hank, it should have been called the White People Folk Festival. Okay, I'm white but still. And folk music. Jesus. You were born in a coal mine and you don't like working underground?
Yeah. Maybe.
Forgive me. I'm sorry. It's just...well. It gets repetitive.
Of course all the music wasn't like that. Not by a long shot. But a lot of it was.
And as I also texted Hank, I was not the only old woman wearing braids. Yes. I am an old hippie. I know it. Damn. At least I wasn't wearing some damn funky lace-up shoes with socks with my skirt. Of course, if I had been, my feet wouldn't be this dirty. But they sure would have been hot. How in HELL can you wear socks in ninety-plus degree weather? And why? Good Lord. That's why they make sandals. And do not even talk to me about wearing socks with sandals in the summer. Nope. Don't.

Anyway, I'm home and there is no bra in sight. My cleavage is resting. My soul is at peace.

Shit. I forgot to buy a Cicada Ladies coozie. And I didn't learn how to weave a basket (which honestly, is something I really wish I knew how to do and I'm not kidding you) any of that other stuff that people were demonstrating. I don't know. Contra dance. Make cane syrup. Grind corn into meal and grits. I really should know how to do those last two things.

Maybe next year.

But I will not be camping. No sir, not for me.
Can you imagine going to bed with feet completely black with dirt? Yeah, I've done it before and no, I do not care to do it again any time soon. Of course, there are showers in the camp ground but by the time you'd walked the distance back to your tent, your feet would be filthy again. Unless you wore socks.

Forget it. I'm going to go take a shower.

Love...Ms. Moon

Real Housewife Of Jefferson County

Where is my cook? Where is my maid? Where is my gardener? Where is my laundress? Where is my psychologist? Where is my drug dealer? Where is my chauffer? Where is my personal trainer? Where is my cabana boy and my swimming pool guy?

Where in hell are my cabana and my swimming pool? 

Jesus, people. I just want my fair share of the wealth. I just want my fair share of the good life as illustrated on the TeeVee. I am a real housewife! I am not a Real Housewife. I guess there's a fucking difference because I sure don't have a room-sized closet full of prom dresses that show my giantshinybubbleboobed cleavage that I sit around and drink cocktails in.

What? Giantshinybubbleboobed isn't a word?
Well, it is at blessourhearts.

How in hell do those skinny, bony women hold those big old boobies up? I guess that's what Pilates is all about.

Okay. It's Friday. Before Memorial Day which for those of you who hold actual jobs and are actual members of society, means that you have a three-day weekend. For me, an actual housewife/hermit, it means very little. The chickens do not care one bit and will not be rearranging their schedules to include a memorial of any kind.

Speaking of chickens, those banties are wild. They are taking to roosting ON TOP OF THE HEN HOUSE! I mean, the big hen house. Like, ten feet up in the air. We go out to put everyone to bed and the banties are up there, peering down at us with sleepy eyes. Last night I just left them. Obviously, they are bred to roost in trees or something. Okay. Whatever.

Flopsy is taking her babies further and further afield. Yesterday she brought them up to the back steps for me and Owen to give treats to. We did. We fed them bread. They liked it. They clucked and rattled and chuckled and snatched. Flopsy tid-bitted the bread to them. She took it out of Owen's hands and then dropped it for the chicks. We also saw Elvis mount Flopsy yesterday. Well, roosters don't so much mount as they do just jump on them, which he did. To Flopsy. Right in front of her babies. They didn't seem to care.
"Oh for Christ sake, Elvis," I said.
He didn't seem to care either. The act took all of twelve seconds, if that, but he seemed pretty proud about it and then resumed eating corn scratch.

I wasn't wearing a prom dress and neither was Flopsy.

So Mr. Moon and I are heading over to the Florida Folk Festival today. Jessie is already over there, camping with her fellow Cicada Ladies. They are selling beer coozies that say Cicada Ladies on them and taking pre-orders for their CD's and performing. We plan to catch their 3:00 pm set. We'll also be able to see demonstrations of how to throw cast nets and take care of Florida Cracker Cows or something. I don't know. Frankly, I don't really care. It's going to be hot and there will be Porta Potties and fried food delight and I already have chiggers, thank you very much. Also, tick bites. I have GOT to quit peeing in the woods. I'd rather pee in the woods and risk Lyme Disease though, than use a Porta Potty.
Plus, I fucking LIVE in a 24-hour-a-day, 7-days-a-week demonstration of Florida Folk shit.
And I should probably wear a bra.

I'm just a grouch today. I think a real good afternoon for me would be to go to a country club and have a cobb salad and lay around a pool and have a cute guy bring me endless vodka tonics. There would be no Florida Cracker Cows in sight. Or cast nets. Or old-timey fiddlers. Or cloggers. Just the gentle lapping of chlorinated water and a beautifully appointed rest room for when I needed to pee.

But then again, there would be no Cicada Ladies either.
So there you go.
Plus, I don't belong to a country club. Plus, I might need to buy some Cicada Lady beer coozies.

I can't believe I have a daughter who's a musician. But I do. And she is. The other night before I went to bed Jessie was playing guitar sitting on the stairs in the hallway. One of the main reasons I wanted this house was because of that hallway. I knew that the acoustics in there would be perfect.

And they pretty much are.
Where did that girl get those fingers? Not from me. Not from her daddy.
Some old-timey musician, I guess. I probably carry him or her around with me in my genes and I don't even know it. So I'll just carry that old-timey musician genes with me to the Folk Festival and show him or her that I have done my part in keeping those genes alive.
I'll probably cry.

Then I'll come home and turn on the AC and pee on my potty which is inside of the house and hopefully, no ticks or chiggers will be involved and no damn cakes of that weird pink smelly shit they have in Porta Potties. And go put my chickens to bed. And then lay down and rest my cleavage.

Those are my big plans for the Memorial Day Weekend here in North Florida where we have our own sort of Good Life and it doesn't involve cabana boys or prom dresses. Which is just fine but frankly and in all honesty, I would not mind a maid.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

A Birth Day Love

I think Owen spent at least forty-five minutes in the bath tub today. He wanted to wash a Power Ranger and then once he got in there, he just kept having a good time. He didn't need a bath so much as he just wanted to play in the water and I completely understand that and I have no problem with hanging out in the bathroom with him while he plays.
He likes to listen to the seashells in there and hear the ocean in them. He listened to that one above and then told me that it made him think he would like to go to the beach.
I think that's what he told me. Something about going to the beach.

Ah. That boy. I look at that picture of him and I see his mother and I see his father. A perfect blending of genes in a boy who is thinking about the beach and listening to the ocean in a shell.

May is at the beach. It is her birthday today. She called me and we talked. May and I hardly ever talk on the phone without both of us ending up in tears but in a good way. A sweet way. An I-love-you-so-much-it-makes-me-cry way.

Today was the same. I told her that in a way, she had been my Gibson. That second child who completes the lesson of love which children bring with them. The lesson that shows you how absolutely limitless the love you have in your heart for your children is. I told her that I had heard of people who loved their first child so much that they decided never to have another and that I thought those people were cheating themselves of the rest of the message. Not that I think that everyone should have two children. Or any children for that matter, but that for me, it was certainly her birth that taught me how foolish my fears had been for my entire pregnancy with her- the fears that I could never and would never love another child the way I loved Hank and would thus be cheating this second child.

The second she was born (on my bed in a very small trailer house right down the road here in Jefferson County, thirty-four years ago this morning at dawn), and delivered unto my arms, I knew how very foolish those fears had been.
I knew my heart's ability to love was boundless and what a lesson that is.

I've told this before but I will tell it again- that before I got pregnant with May, I kept seeing a light out of the corner of my eye. A little light that would come and then flash away before I could focus on it. Drove me a little crazy, it did, but I was pretty in touch with the cosmos in those days. I wasn't too worried. I sort of figured...

So today on the phone I thanked her for wanting to be here enough to show up as a light way before she showed up as a baby. I thanked her for loving me. And then I said, "Thank you most of all for letting me love you."

And we both cried. And I am crying now.

We do not love our children each in the same way. Any mother who says she does is either lying or a very different sort of mother than I am. How can I love my Jessie the same way I love my Hank? How can I love my Lily the same way I love my May? I cannot. They are not the same and my relationship with each of them is so very different, just as they are.

I love each of them in very special, unique ways but I love them all more than I ever knew I was capable of loving and May is my baby who taught me that.

I don't think anything has made me happier in a very long time than the fact that May and Jessie and I all got to be with Lily when she had Gibson nine weeks ago. It was fitting beyond measure. It was perfect. My second child was with her sister when she had her second child. It was a moment of purest ecstasy for all of us. I have put this picture up before but I am putting it up again.

We are a chain of genes and of spirit and of love, our hands upon each other's bodies, welcoming the newest perfection of the manifestation of the love we all hold for each other.

In some ways, May is me and I am her. Oh, we do not confuse ourselves for each other, but we know we are entangled by more than those strands of RNA and DNA. We are entangled by the strands of our love for each other which is the strongest thing on earth. Just as I am entangled with all of my children but today, it is May I am mostly talking about. The daughter who looks like me, sounds like me, walks like me.

The one who came to me in light and then in body.
She walks in light even as I speak and I love her more than I knew I could and I do believe that love like this is something which even the ages will not diminish. If I believe anything, it is that the love we make and take is something not only as real as our physical beings but more so, and as such, will remain part of the this universe for as long as it continues. And may even have existed before we came to know each other in this existence. I'm going out there on a limb with that one- not quite sure- but as every mother knows, when a child is born, it is almost impossible to remember a time when that child was not there. So...perhaps.

And that's what I'm thinking about this evening as the sun is lowering in the sky and the day's heat is simmering upon the ground and how thirty-four years ago tonight I had had a day of giving birth and taking my newborn to the doctor to have her pronounced perfect (and oh, how that resident hated the idea of a home-born baby!) and then came home to rest and then make a supper out of the garden and how tonight I will also cook potatoes out of my garden and how much I love that child.

Owen has gone home to be with his mama and his daddy and his baby brother whom I already love as much as I love Owen which seems impossible but there you have it.
It's true.

This is my life and the light and the love held within it and these are my babies and it is May's birthday and I am just so damn grateful for all of it and no, I have not, nor will I ever do everything perfectly but you know what? That's not even part of the deal.

I have loved. And May taught me how endless that well of love is.

And she has let me love her and still does and I wish her the happiest of birthdays and we shall gather together soon, this tribe of love of ours, and celebrate that.

Key Lime Pie will be involved.

That and love.



Happy birthday, Darling May!

More later.


The Land of Not-Nod

Since Mr. Moon and I caught this virus, sleep has been elusive. We sleep all over the house. Actually, I'm not doing so badly and sleep mostly in the guest room because he doesn't want to disturb me, nor I him, but when I get up to go pee at four and see signs that he's been up, I worry so much about him that I can't get back to sleep.

Our morning conversations are more like travel reports than anything else.
And not good ones.

Oh, how I miss normality.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Old Mer-Mer Is Tired As Hell

But it was an a really good day.

Mean Aunt Jessie got home and made Gibson cry.
See? He can fuss.
Look at that lip.

 The two-month-old teething child.

 Owen being goofy with pretzels.

 Gibson and his cute papa who washed the dishes. I love you, Jason!

And oh- the cop DID show up and told his side of the story, which was a LIE, and Jason and Lily told their version, which was the TRUTH and the judge is going to render a verdict within ten days.

This is ridiculous. By the way, it was a Highway Patrol Officer.

Gibson and I got some major flirt time in today. Also, I rocked him to sleep twice. And told him stories. And sang to him.
I think he's learning to like his old Mer-Mer.

Yeah. I'll stop calling myself that pretty soon.

Or not.


This Makes My Heart SO Happy (Thanks, Hank. I Love You!)

Old Mer-Mer

I was at Lily's house with Owen and Gibson, and Mr. Moon came over to play too. When he walked in the door, Owen grabbed me and pushed me forward a little bit and said, "Here's your old Mer-Mer!"

I swear. He did.

I love him anyway.

Ass Hats (I Just Like That Term)

Back in the dark ages, like about six months ago or something, Jason got a ticket for driving without wearing a seat belt.

Now the darn thing is, he WAS wearing his seat belt. He was wearing his seat belt, Lily, sitting next to him was wearing her seat belt and Owen was in the back seat, properly strapped into his car seat. Gibson was yet preborn and was using his mother's seat belt as he was safely inside of her womb.

The police officer had a bit of a hardon about things and refused to acknowledge that Jason was indeed wearing his seat belt and had been wearing it since he left his yard. When Jason, who was understandably confused and shocked, tried to point this out, the officer said, "It's not my job to argue about this on the side of the road with you. I'll argue about it in court."

Or something like that.

So they fought the ticket because, well, HE WAS WEARING HIS SEAT BELT!

And they got a court date which arrived about three days after Gibson was born and Lily needed to be there because she was the witness that HE WAS WEARING HIS SEAT BELT and so they had to change the court date and today is the day.

Good Lord.

And so Mer-Mer is going to go into town today to babysit for at least Owen and maybe Gibson too, although even at nine weeks and one day, he is still an arm-baby and is in his mama's arms almost all the time if he isn't sleeping and even then, mostly. And I'm going to meet Hank for lunch because he doesn't have to be at school until 1:30 and I haven't gotten to see him in weeks.

AND Jessie's getting in today because she's playing this weekend at the Suwanee Folk Festival with her Cicada Ladies.

Busy, busy, busy.

I talked to May yesterday and she is out of town with her sweetheart, not working, and celebrating her birthday week. I think she is mostly celebrating not working, to tell you the truth. Tomorrow is her birthday and I am sure I shall wax all eloquent about that tomorrow and she won't be here which is odd, but maybe we can all get together Sunday night when she is back and Jessie is here. I'll make key lime pies. Shrimp may be involved. The wig that we all tried on at last year's May celebration will NOT be involved due to the fact that I threw it away. Or glued it back to the doll's head. I did one or the other of those things. I can't remember.

I need to go get in a walk. Walk, walk, walk. And can I say that more trash has been dumped on the path through the woods where I walk? It's infuriating. Piles of beer cans and other assorted shit and god damn it! the fucking dump place is about half a mile down the road. Come on! What sort of asshat trashy shithead drives through the woods to dump trash when the fucking dump place is right down the road?

I'd call the sheriff's office but what are they going to do? This is Jefferson County, y'all. We don't have the sort of money here to allow sheriffs the luxury of trying to figure out who's dumping their beer cans in the woods.

Jason got his ticket in Leon County where obviously there is more money and plenty of time for the police to give tickets to people for not wearing seat belts when they are wearing seat belts.

And thus I have come around to the beginning again and there you go.

Good morning.

Love...Ms. Moon

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Don't Read This If You Don't Want To Be Thanked, Don't Like The Word FUCK, Or Are Offended By George Carlin's Take On Religion

Thank all of you so very, very much. I haven't answered all of my comments from today but I will.
You don't know how much they mean to me.
Or maybe you do. Hell, I'm not unique. I'm just a woman who loves to hear nice things about herself. Most of us are like that. And so thank-you.
All day I've come here and checked to find what you've said and I've been overwhelmed and warmed.

And of course, wondering what in hell y'all are thinking to be so nice but you know, that's human too. To think to oneself, "Boy, I've really fooled THEM!"
Unless you're an egomaniac which I don't think I am but then again, I could be.
Who knows?
Not me.

Another thing I've done all day is to laugh to myself about the link that Elizabeth put up today.
If you haven't gone here yet, just do it.
You know my favorite word in the English language is "fuck" and this site has fuck on every page. Used in such a tender loving way.
Lord, Lord. I love it.

Okay, here's something my friend Harvey sent around today:

St. George Carlin.

We are so lucky to have had him.

I'm not a religious person but that does not mean I don't believe in saints.

Well, it's doing that thing where it's raining somewhere nearby. The sky has been pewtered and lightening-split and yes, we're getting the tiniest pattering of rain drops. One lone frog is begging for more. I join him in spirit. I've got what might be my last pot of collards and mustards for the season simmering on the stove. They've been simmering for hours because at this point in the year, there is no tenderness to them. The chickens are completely unconcerned about the weather and are going about their last bit of scratching for the day and every now and then the wind picks up and tosses the magnolia branches.

The earth itself yearns and the air is literally running hot and cold like a woman who can't make up her mind about whether or not she's going to go home with the guitar player at the end of the evening.
Maybe she doesn't even know.
And if she does, she ain't saying.

There you go. That's it from Lloyd, Florida today. At least from my little bit of it.

I'm so glad you came by.