Oh my goodness, Valentine's morning and we have coffee and I slept so well. Really, two such gifts that I completely missed the huge vase of long stem red roses right there in front of my nose in the kitchen when I stumbled out, bleary and in need of that blessed coffee. There was a card and a heart made of chocolates and a bag with my favorite espresso in it too. Those I saw. But the roses? It took me two cups of coffee to even see them.
Yes. I am blind.
But not to love.
My baby boys are coming out soon. I've already scraped meringue from the bottom of the oven in preparation for the cookie making. And how did meringue get burnt to the bottom of my oven? Ah me. Well. Therein lies a story of egg whites and a Pavlova and a one tiny mistake after another until the kitchen and then half the house were filled with smoke and the smell of burnt sugar.
At one point, the Pavlova looked like this:
Lofty and huge and lovely.
Now it looks like something I'm not even going to take a picture of but it resembles my skin in that it is brown and wrinkled and of a texture not anything like something delicious-looking.
It may, however, be fit to eat with sugared berries and whipped cream and so all is not lost.
Well. Mr. Moon and I have been together for twenty-nine Valentine's days and more importantly, for all of the many days and nights in-between and some burnt sugar and unappetizing-looking Pavlova is not going to take away one molecule of those days, some of them so hard I'm not sure how we got through them, but we did, together, and some of them so fraught with joy and goodness that I guess they have carried us through it all.
Happy Valentine's Day, y'all. Be ye blessed to be loved by man or woman, child or beast, just know that this is only one day of the year and it is best, as it always is, to keep things in perspective and to love back with as full a heart as possible. Life is full of troubles and woe and there is nothing that can get us through as well as love. Even if that love is for a garden or the making of poems or of songs. Just...love.
And being able to laugh as smoke fills a house and shoulders are shrugged and to be grateful and open the doors to let the smoke out and the sweet clear air in and to go on.
Ah, home. Finally. Some days just seem so long. Too long.
The meeting. Well. I don't want to talk about it. I probably really shouldn't. But it wasn't easy, going over all of that stuff again. I'll say that.
And Mr. Moon's at a basketball game and I have things to do for Valentine's and a few other things and I need to set up this new coffee pot and by god, I'm keeping the receipt on this one. I probably made the stupid decision to get the same maker, just a newer model, because I like the way it works, the simplicity of it, and hey- this way I'll have an extra carafe, right?
Sure. Why not?
Fuck it.
I'm tired. It's been a tiring day. My mother died one month ago tonight. Not in a good way, either.
Okay, okay. I'm not going to talk about it.
It was sweet to see my brother. He is talking to me. I am so glad.
My boys were precious. I will get them here tomorrow in the morning and I bought (I can't even believe this) a roll of cookie dough to make Valentine's cookies because Owen said he wanted to do that tomorrow. And icing. And sprinkles. Can you imagine the fun? Oh boy.
It's supposed to get cold. The wind is coming and dying, building and ebbing.
When I left Lily and Jason's house, Jason was holding Gibson and when I went in for a good-bye kiss, Gibson held his arms out to me and pulled me close. It was the sweetest damn thing in the world. Ever. to be hugged by a not-quite eleven month old boy.
So there. There is plenty of sweetness. Just in time for Valentine's.
I watched the State of The Union last night and it seemed fine to me. I especially liked the last part where Obama spoke about gun control. The man can give a speech and is such a relief in all ways from the painful Bush years.
Dear god.
Every time that man opened his mouth I cringed in embarrassment for our country. It's very nice not to feel that way and, in fact, to not only like what comes out of the president's mouth but to admire the way it does.
I loved the way he basically said, "You have every right not to believe in global warming but if you don't, you're an ignorant asshole."
So yeah, that was good.
Went to bed recalling that it was one week ago we came down with the Dreaded Puke Illness and was grateful that was over with. Then I proceeded to wake up all night with gastric distress, my body's way of celebrating the anniversary I suppose. Jesus. I had a damn salad for dinner.
Woke up this morning, went to the kitchen only to discover that my fucking coffee pot isn't working. All the lights come on but there is no brewing happening. None. I fired up the old Cowboy Coffee pot and thank god (and Lis Williamson) I have it.
Anyway, la-di-dah. Life goes on. We were supposed to go to a meeting last Wednesday at the Assisted Living place where Mother died but had to reschedule when we came down with the pukes. So that's happening today. Before that I'm going to stay with the boys for a few hours and and I guess I have to go buy a new coffee pot. Didn't I just do this? At the meeting we're going to hear why my mother was coded out the yang when she essentially died although she had a DNR and a living will and every other possible document you can have to prevent just this exact situation. I want to hear what happened, as I have said before. I am not sure but I am thinking that this is not going to be a fun meeting. Not fun at all.
In fact, if I were to be honest, I might attribute my gastric distress of last night to worrying about that rather than some sort of anniversary celebration on the part of my stomach.
Who knows? Not me.
All I know is that I feel like shit warmed over, it's been one month today since my mother died, it would appear that none of my brothers are really speaking to me, and my coffee pot is broken.
In good news, I did make tonight's supper last night and it is ready to go into the crock pot. White bean, venison chili. Which, truthfully, does not sound like what I need to be eating.
But it is very warm although it is supposed to get cooler tonight and the cardinals and finches and blackbirds are dining with vigor at the feeder and Baby has already come in and eaten her breakfast and is back on her nest which is in an old hanging basket in the pump house. She is sitting on a cache of eggs which I am certain are not fertile and if that's not a metaphor for something, I don't know what is.
Perhaps it is a metaphor for Marco Rubio trying to create new life in the Republican party by rehashing all the old dead stinky bullshit that has killed it in the first place.
I can't seem to write tonight. Everything I try to say turns out sounding like a grocery list. A useless bit of ephemera, uninteresting and of no consequence.
Maybe it's my mood which is neither here nor there, simply quiet.
I went to town. I met a lovely woman who is the wife of a fine man.
She trimmed my hair nicely. I feel as if I have known her forever.
I picked up my jewelry. My grown-up charm bracelet which I love, and Lily's pearls which I got restrung for her and the bracelet.
It is strange to see it shiny and not blackened with age and disuse. I am happy to have it and it feels good on my wrist. The Bacchus heads are just slightly curved enough so that they rest comfortably on the wrist. I wish I knew where it was from, who bought it and for whom, who made it and when.
I will probably never know.
So much of life is mystery. I tried writing about that and it didn't work. I will just leave it at that.
I will just say that I don't know and it's okay. I am too old to think that it really matters that much and also old enough to know that I will never know the Celestial Secrets and I will be satisfied with the wind's tongue in the magnolia leaves, the coming of night, the sense of satisfaction of a drainer full of washed dishes, the grace of a friend's hug, the feel of a bracelet on my wrist, the beauty of the season's flowers in vases in the night time hallway, the knowing that I do not know.
Sometimes you just have to give up and as the Saint Beatles said, Let it be.
And shut the hell up and pay attention and accept that it simply is.
All right. I did my best. I got a few raindrops on a rose
And on some azaleas
And camellias.
It's almost like the camera can't handle the color of the some of the flowers around here. It goes into some sort of hyper-drive psychedelic mode.
So. I slept. I stayed in my bed all night long. And I feel like I've accomplished an impossible goal.
Obviously, my bar is set pretty low right now.
Well, Barely Adequate Woman says, "That's okay."
I am going to try and get my hair trimmed today. I am, I believe, in the running for Grandmother-With-The-Longest-Hair-In-The-USA at the moment, which is fine with me but it needs trimming up. And I am going to pick up some jewelry I have had repaired or restrung or tightened and I am going to go to Costco with Lily and the boys.
This, to me, sounds like a practically perfect day.
One of the pieces of jewelry I am picking up is a bracelet which was in my mother's jewelry box since I was a small child and it always fascinated me. It has three large faces of Bacchus on it and a small Diana (I think) and a small Pan. I always thought it was silver but the jeweler I took it to said it was mostly nickel and that it looks as if it were made in Europe. I cannot for the life of me figure out where it might have come from. Mother never wore it. It never had a clasp on it as far as I can remember. Anyway, I will wear it. The Pagan Bracelet From Europe with mysterious origins.
It is raining. It is warm. It is lovely. I slept.
I hope you did too.
Love...Ms. Moon
Monday, February 11, 2013
It's drizzling and I've had a full day and I took my damn vitamins and supplements and I had my walk and so yes, I guess my plan to Be Recovered by today has worked out well enough but now, it is so time for bed.
So time.
Let us all sleep. Let us all dream of pleasant things, kisses that taste like rapture and spearmint gum, bears who look at us with eyes both sorrowful and wise and who speak to us of the ancient times, how we felt when we were kids and got new shoes and could almost, almost fly and could definitely run forever, raindrops on roses and so forth.
I'll bet that tomorrow I'll be able to take a picture of just that. Raindrops on roses.
I know you can't wait.
Okay. The Pope is resigning.
First Pope to resign in six hundred years. He cites poor health as his reason. I guess if you're the Pope, you can't use the excuse that you want to spend more time with your family, huh?
Poor old Pope. I'd be exhausted, just getting up every day and putting on all those robes. And all that jewelry.
Well, bless his heart.
I wonder if the lawsuits starting to come in about the sexual abuse cover up have anything to do with his retirement?
Nah. Of course not.
Is anyone else out there having Google Reader problems? Mine currently says I have 117 unread blog posts. I don't think so. Is the world coming to an end? The Pope is retiring and Google Reader is screwed up? Did Jim Morrison show up at the Grammys last night? Have I missed something?
Huffpost tells me that someone at the Grammys had a serious underboob moment. Underboob? First sideboob and now underboob? Women! Control those things! Or don't. Who doesn't love bosoms?
It's about seventy degrees here in Lloyd. It's supposed to rain all week. Fine with me. I wish it was raining now so I'd have an excuse not to walk but it's not and I don't. I haven't taken a walk in a week. Jeez. I am falling apart. I am breaking down like old tofu. I am more gray-headed and wrinkled by the day. If I don't do something and fast, my next trip to Mexico is going to require Mr. Moon taking me in a carry-on bag. I'll be so soft and squishy and weakly that he'll just be able to shove me in a bag and put me in the overhead bin. Well, it'll save on the price of a ticket.
If I was the Pope, I'd have to resign.
I've got a great attitude today, don't I?
No. No I do not.
Oh well. The world does not give a shit nor should it.
I guess I'll put on my big girl panties and cowboy up, cupcake and get on with it. The trash needs taking. I think I'll get my hair trimmed this week. Is Thursday really Valentine's Day? Is it too late to take pole dancing lessons so I can surprise my husband with a private dancing session?
Yes. Yes it is.
Phew.
Bless you, my children.
Love...Ms. Moon
Sunday, February 10, 2013
It has been a peaceful day. Even when the boys were here, there was mostly peace.
Mr. Moon and Owen fixed some wires on the four-wheeler which mice had done some damage to and then they went for a slow ride around the yard, bumping over the ground, just once around.
Gibson and I watched, he in his stroller and I wonder if he had any desire to ride too. He wants to do everything his brother does these days.
I think he will be walking in two weeks. I saw him take a half-step today, going from a cabinet in the kitchen to the stove. He's a laid-back baby, this one, and is mostly content to be carried, and in fact, is happiest to be held but he can climb the stairs which gives me a bit of a heart attack but not much of one as I don't let him out of my sight for a second. I let him climb a step or two, standing right behind him, and then I bring him back and give him something to play with to distract him. He is an easy child. A merry child. A peaceful child.
Mr. Moon has a small trailer which Owen loves to play in. It's not unlike a playhouse in that it has walls and a door and there is even a rug in there and Owen wants us all to get in there and have snacks and hang out and we did that today. He asked me to go into the kitchen to get the corn chips so that we could have some and give some to the chickens, which I did. When I walked to the house, he stood in the doorway of the trailer and called after me, "Be careful of snakes!"
And I was.
We fed the chickens and ourselves, too, all of us munching in communal peace. After a bit, Owen wanted his ginger ale from the house and I went and got that too. This time he warned me to "be careful!" and "don't trip!" Again, I followed his instructions.
Later on he wanted me to go and get pillows so that we could all lie down in the trailer for a rest but I put my foot down and said no. That if he wanted pillows, we could all go lay down on my bed where there are many, many pillows and he accepted my denial of his wishes, knowing that he'd gotten all from me that he was going to get when it came to doing his bidding as applied to walking back to the house. He is quite aware that I spoil him and just as aware that I do have my limits.
I can't help it when it comes to spoiling him. I take perverse pleasure in being able to do that. Yesterday, after he peed on the potty, he asked for a reward- a piece of candy- which he no longer gets when he uses the potty. But. You know. I went into the cabinet and found the remains of a bag of small Hershey's kisses I'd used in baking for Christmas and I said, "Shhh. Don't tell anyone," and then I gave him three and told him to give one to his mama and one to his Boppy and we smiled at each other in conspiracy and he did.
After Lily came and got her boys I started working some more on the Secret Wedding Stuff and that too, was peaceful. I listened to a book on CD as I worked on the back porch and the cardinals and the blackbirds came to the feeder and I am somewhat in wonder at the number of birds we are having. Finches, turning yellower by the day and cardinals and blackbirds, mostly. The hawks soar overhead and a woodpecker was working inside a water oak in the front yard today, knocking so loudly that it sounded as if he was using a hammer. He would appear from a hole in it every few moments and then get back to work and I know from the hollow sound that that tree has got to come down. Water oaks are a heartbreak. They grow quickly and die quickly and Mr. Moon says the cherry laurel outside our bedroom needs to come down too, it is rotting from the ground and I do not care to die in my bed from a tree falling on me although I can definitely think of far worse ways to go.
Always something to do. Always rot to take care of. It's such a fine balance, this life, between the growing and the dying, the being-born and the winding-down.
Well. I am cooking some chicken with three types of olives and capers and lemon juice and lemon peel and so much garlic and oregano and mushrooms and sliced cherry tomatoes. I will cook some pasta to serve it over and add a tiny bit of goat cheese I have and warm up some of the sourdough loaf I made yesterday. I am learning how to best use the sourdough starter, finally and my loaves are high and mighty.
A peaceful day. The day I have designated as the last of our illness. Tomorrow we shall begin again. Mr. Moon will go to the gym, I will walk. I have a meeting for the Opera House Stage Company. We shall see if I, having made my plans cause God to laugh.
It is supposed to start raining again. The azaleas are zany, their pinks and purples and colors in between. Perhaps this will be the most glorious spring ever, albeit a very early one.
Thank-you for being here. I just wanted to say that. I can't state too frequently how much of a miracle it is to me that I have this avenue of communication. That I write out my thoughts and that people whom I have come to think of as friends-and-almost-family, respond. That I can visit you and know what your thoughts are, see how your worlds look.
We dream of each other.
I can think of nothing more powerful than that.
It was Newton who said that a body at rest tends to remain at rest and at the moment I feel as if I were put here on earth to prove that shit.
I am not sure if I am suffering from inertia or ennui or the dregs of the illness or just a further intensification of my disinterest in leaving home. Whatever it is, it is strong. Mr. Moon talked about going to a movie today and I almost passed out at the thought. He also suggested we go to a big home show in town and that made me sort of want to die.
It's just all too much. I have always said that far from being Super Woman, I can only claim to be Barely Adequate Woman and these days even that is stretching it.
I don't know. I don't know.
I do know that for whatever reason, it is impossible for me to sleep through the night. I wrote awhile back about how it is an artificial and fairly modern thing to believe that we should do that- sleep a straight-through eight hours. That other cultures have no such belief and cheerfully wake up in the darkest hours and get up to have a little meal or sit around with others who are awake and relate dreams or whatever. I did not nap yesterday and I did not have my afternoon espresso and I took two Benadryl before bed and still, I woke up around two-thirty and was awake until after four. I ate a few crackers, I read. I didn't worry about it. If my body wants so badly to keep these particular hours that it will fight through the grogginess, the fairly powerful effects of the antihistamine, then who am I to try and force sleep upon it? This probably contributes to my disinterest in going anywhere. It is hard to get up the energy to think about going to town or doing almost anything at all when I feel such a persistent low-level of fatigue.
Maybe. Maybe that's it. Or maybe I am just becoming more and more neurotic or some other form of crazy, I do not know. But again, I am not really fighting it. Not today, at least.
It is, after all, Sunday, and this whole past week has felt like one long lost weekend. Tomorrow is Monday and I have things which I must do and therefore, will do, and it will be time to take a walk again, to at least move my body more than I have been, to fight the inertia, the ennui, the crazy. The boys are coming out today for a little while and that will be nice. I have, of course, laundry to do and plenty of things around here that require some attention and as always, I can figure out plenty of ways to waste time which require neither the putting on of a bra or the use of gasoline.
It is Sunday and I am going to allow myself this one more day to be at home, to make excuses for not engaging in the activities of the marketplace or of people or the world in general. I feel low and flat and completely uninspired.
Thus it is.
I am a body at rest. It will not always be this way, but for right now it simply is.
Today was a day for working on the secret wedding things and Lily came over with the boys and we worked some together and we passed Gibson around and Boppy played with Owen and we got a few things done. I am still moving rather slowly and so is Mr. Moon. He ate a tuna sandwich from the Subway today for lunch and his stomach did not approve. I ate two of last night's sweet potato oat bran muffins for my lunch and my stomach feels fine.
It has been the most beautiful day, but a little chilly. Owen wanted to watch some Little Mermaid and he got up on the guest room bed and wanted all the covers and he and his grandfather watched a little while but then he wanted to do a puzzle and so The Little Mermaid was abandoned and they also found four beautiful eggs and played outside.
I can't believe how much his looks are changing. He is growing from baby to boy so fast. Almost too fast. I look at his face and I see a beauty there that I can hardly believe. It's a different sort of beauty, and yes, his longer hair is part of it and he doesn't want his hair cut and so his mama and his daddy are letting him be about it. I am proud of them for that. Especially Jason. As with everything about that man, I am incredibly impressed by the way he fathers his sons. He is a good, gentle man. And he is a good husband, as well. A mother could not wish more for her daughter, not in a million years.
I look back on the times when my children dated people whom I could not warm to and there was part of me that thought, Oh, Lord. No. And there were times I wanted to step in front of them with a whistle and put it to my lips and blow sharp, shrill notes of warning. This is not your true love! Let this person go!
And I did not because I remembered my younger days. I remembered some of the boys I dated. I cringed a little and then I realized that I had learned something from each of them, even if the lesson was simply, "No, not this type of person."
And I am not one bit sorry for not getting involved in that way.
I am glad I have trusted my kids to find their way down each path they have set their feet to.
Well, that's all I have to say tonight. Just that if you are the mother of kids who are making choices that you, from the perspective of your age and years would not necessarily make, it is not necessarily your job to lecture, to hector, to warn. It is your job to love your child and trust that he or she will figure it out, just as you did. To let things take their own course. To trust that maybe your child will end up with a knowledge that far surpasses anything you may have been able to impart with words.
That's all.
Trust. Love. Encourage. Support.
And to be patient and accept with wonder as to how things turn out.
I think that Mr. Moon and I are well on the road to recovery. Last night I made a supper with TWO actual vegetables AND we had a martini so there you go.
Of course I didn't actually sleep. I never sleep any more. I am not going to even discuss the fact that another critter is living in the guest room. Which, yes, bothers me a great deal but mostly because it scribbles and scrabbles and wakes me up. I am so far gone with insomnia that the main problem I have with a rodent running around in my guest room is that it disturbs my sleep.
And to add to the fun, May's man, Matt, who is beloved by Owen and Gibson and who has played with them in the last week, spent the night puking. Which means he has it. Which also means that May will get it.
Does the CDC know about this puke-disease? Because they should. They should be putting their best scientists to work on this thing.
I told May this morning to get ready. To go buy ginger-ale and juice and to make sure they have plenty of Ibuprofen. To hunker down. Because dammit, there is no escape. There is no easy way to deal with the Horrible, Awful, Dreaded Puke Disease Which Causes Body Pains So Intense You Cry When You Pull Your Panties Down.
Does the president know about this thing? I think perhaps he should call a special convening of Congress.
Anyway, it is a beautiful day here in Lloyd. Sparkly and shiny as the tiara on an Ice Princess and speaking of ice, the NE is snowed in, I hear and yet in Lloyd the roses have now started to bloom.
Yes. The roses.
We do not even inhabit the same planet, do we?
We'll talk more about this during hurricane season later on in the year.
All right. I have a million things to do and I better get to them.
Today Owen did a puzzle all by himself. And not only was it a fairly complex puzzle but the pieces of it were all mixed together in a box with three other puzzles. Okay, sure, all the puzzle pieces are coded on the bottom with little symbols to designate which puzzle they belonged to.
BUT...
I do not want to tell you how long it took me to figure this out the day I "helped" him put one of these puzzles together. And even after you figure it out, there's a lot of sorting involved before you can even begin to fit the pieces together.
Here he is. My puzzle-doin' grandson, Owen. Three years old. With his puzzle. Which is one of those words that the more you think about it, the odder it becomes.
Okay. This is growing tiring. Mr. Moon is still having gastric distress and I still ache. Sleeping is not going well. The people next door seem to want their lights on all night long now. All their lights. All night long. Yes. I can put up a more-substantial curtain or blinds. No, I do not want to because the cool air coming in the window is my savior.
There is no reason to keep lights burning all night long unless someone is having a baby and no one has a baby every night. I do not think they are having a baby every night.
Yes, yes, we are at the grumpy phase of this illness which, I guess, is a good sign.
We had talked yesterday about maybe taking off and running away and getting a room at the beach today if we felt better. Instead, I think we may feel about good enough to play some Monopoly or something. The sky continues to remain gray. It is warmish, which I suppose is a good thing but it's disturbing, too. The azaleas are starting to thrust their hot-pink frills forth from their green dresses in earnest. I suppose the dogwoods will be next and then the bamboo will start to plunge itself upwards from the ground and we will begin our annual ritual of Kick The Bamboo, thus preventing it from taking over our yard. This is a strangely satisfying thing to do and Owen will be old enough this year to actually participate.
I miss my grandsons.
I read that New England is about to get some monster storm. Blizzard. Whatever. Down here a Blizzard is a Dairy Queen confection. Do they have Dairy Queens up north? I've never had a Blizzard nor have I ever been in a blizzard and both of those facts are just fine with me.
Blah, blah, blah.
I have things to do and I should be doing them and yet, the idea of doing almost anything overwhelms me. I spent possibly an entire hour last night reading an article in the New Yorker about a woman who killed a bunch of coworkers. I did not plan on spending an hour of my life reading an article about a woman who killed a bunch of coworkers. I had no idea the article was one-third of the entire magazine. I was already so invested in the damn thing by the time I realized how long it was that I was loathe to stop reading it. I wish I had. There was nothing there I need to know. People can be crazy. This happens. Yes. I am aware.
I am washing my sheets today. I have resigned from the Gallup Panel. I want to eat bacon and eggs but feel this would be a mistake. Mr. Moon just ate a bowl of Cheerios with yogurt. Not very happily. Last night I actually ate a chicken pot pie. I don't need to do that again for another twenty years or so. It wasn't nearly as good as I remembered chicken pot pie from the freezer section of your grocery store being.
There is a woman on The Shahs of Sunset who claims in her tag piece that she "excludes" sexuality. She also claims that she graduated from law school. I think that instead of "excludes" she may have meant "exudes" and also that she may have actually graduated from "bra" school. Such things are easily confused.
Yes. I have been watching more Bravo TV.
No, I am not ashamed and don't you judge me.
My mother's banking establishment just called. They need another death certificate. I suppose this means I need to go to town. Is this even possible?
February is not going so well so far.
Despite all of this, happy Friday, y'all. If you are going to be affected by that blizzard, please take care and report in regularly if possible.
We are making great strides towards health here today and Mr. Moon is actually on his way to Publix to pick up a few items and I won't even tell you what was on that list I gave him except to relate part of a conversation we had about it which went like this:
Him: Do you want yellow or chocolate? I want fluffy icing.
Me: You just pick out whatever sort of cake you want.
We're at that place where we're hungry but nothing sounds good (with the possible exception of cake) and the idea of cooking makes me want to cry a little.
So I watched most of a documentary about the Catholic Church sexual abuse problem (problem! Haha!) called "Mea Maxima Culpa, Silence In The House Of God" because I'd already seen the episodes of Shahs of Sunset which Bravo was offering.
I have one thing to say.
The Catholic Church needs to be destroyed.
I mean, really. That's the only humane, Christian thing to do if you ask me. Not just because they've been covering up the sexual abuse of children by priests forthousands of yearsbut because it is a twisted, fucked-up, sucker of money from the poor all over the world. That and oh, you know, the way they discriminate against women and refuse to admit that condoms save lives and so forth.
I cannot believe that anyone takes those gowned and capped old white men seriously, much less believes for one second that they are holy and that the most ornately gowned and capped old white man of them all has the capability to tell us humans what GOD wants us to know.
What fucking crap.
Here's the trailer of the film.
Pretty powerful. But you know, as the film points out, the Catholic Church is the most powerful organization on earth. So I have little hope for any sort of real justice for any of its victims, whether they be women in third world countries who die in childbirth with their tenth child in nine years or whether they are adults who will never, ever be right in their hearts, their minds or bodies because of being sexually abused.
Okay. That's my rant for the day.
It's been a quiet, laid-back and laying-down sort of day in Lloyd, Florida. It rained on and off all day and I've never seen as many birds at the feeder as we've had lately. We found Miss Baby's latest secret cache of eggs in an old flower pot in the pump house and there are now a dozen beautiful, small, pale ivory eggs in the refrigerator. She'll probably find a new place to lay now that we've taken these. She is such a wild thing, that little hen.
We are in less pain today, we are recovering. The viral illness has done its work in our bodies and soon, its presence here will be just a bad memory. Okay, maybe a memory worthy of a little PTSD but still- we'll get over it.
But some things no one can ever recover from. Not entirely.
And I thought about that today, as I watched that film, as the horror of the sickness of the Catholic Church was documented before my eyes. But I will say this- every one of the incredibly brave victims who are still alive and who come forward to face their abusers (which, believe me, is one of the hardest things in the world to do- I was never able to directly do it), are helping to perhaps, maybe, possibly, make it impossible for this sickness to stay hidden, for those who cover-up to retain any sort of comfort in their roles as enablers.
One can only hope.
And, I guess pray. If one does that which I do not. Because believe me- it's not JUST the Catholic Church where the power of the pulpit allows for such hideous abuse.
Within any religion wherein the power is centered on a few, there is bound to be misuse of that power and it is always the most innocent who are harmed.
Which is why I worship trees and babies and oceans and stuff. Or, well, really like them and get my spiritual needs fulfilled by them.
Be well, y'all.
Love...Ms. Moon
P.S. My abuser was not a priest but a stepfather. Which is incredibly common. And I think about the fact that priests are addressed as "Father" and I shudder.
I think we're going to live. There was quite a bit of doubt about that yesterday. You have never seen two such pathetic people. Mr. Moon is more stoic than I so he wasn't whimpering and moaning but I was. Going to the bathroom to pee and having to PULL MY PANTIES DOWN hurt the skin on my legs so bad I couldn't contain the agony.
I'm not even kidding you.
Even though my husband wasn't quite as demonstrative about the pain as I was, he sure wasn't moving much. And when he did, it was sloooow. And shuffling. Picking his feet up required more energy than he had. Of course, he does have size-sixteen feet so there is that. At one point I asked him to PLEASE SIT DOWN AND STOP WALKING. IT WAS MAKING TOO MUCH NOISE!
That noise thing was killing me.
We hurt too much to sleep. We hurt too much to watch TV. We hurt too much to do anything but look at each other with wide eyes like, "Are we DYING?"
And then there were the sweats and the chills. Still having those.
Ibuprofen helped fine. For about an hour. And then the pain would come bursting back like a hot knife released from a scabbard. Or something. And I'd be moaning and whimpering again.
I kept trying to read but that was impossible. I tried to start two different new library books but gave up after a page or two. Do you hear me? I couldn't read! It was like trying to read while in labor. Or with a kidney stone. No book on earth could have held my attention.
Anyway, at midnight I finally got up out of my bed of pain and sweat and went into the kitchen and found a years'-old Percocet in the freezer and took it. Smartest thing I ever did in my fucking life. Then I went into the library and pulled down my old tattered paperback copy of The Evening Star by Larry McMurtry. I don't know how many times I've read that book but lying in my bed feeling that Percocet take hold and being able to enter the world of Aurora Greenway was one of the sweetest moments of my life. After about half an hour, I was finally able to sleep. Some. For a few blessed hours.
And it's gray and drizzly today and I actually have a load of wash running. Feels like a monumental hurdle crossed, getting that laundry going and being able to sit up and spend some time writing this. And drinking some coffee. And a smoothie with yogurt and fruit. I've actually brushed my hair which hurt too bad yesterday to even contemplate. If someone had tried to pluck one of my eyebrows I would have simply died. Died. I still wouldn't want anyone to pluck anything from my body but I can imagine that that might happen one day in the future which is a vast improvement.
We're still walking around burping and sighing and groaning but we are walking around.
I keep thinking about how, when I was talking to Jessie yesterday on the phone and she was about to go into work, I said, "If you start feeling like you're about to get this, GET HOME!" She and Vergil were exposed to it too and since the incubation period is so long, they are not out of danger yet.
She said, "Sounds like if I get it I should just stay in the hospital."
I thought about that for a moment. I thought about someone making up a bed with clean sheets and administering drugs and maybe bringing a little dish of jello.
"Yes," I said. "You're right."
Don't get this, y'all. And if you do (GOD forbid!) I pray you have a Percocet stashed away somewhere. And the sense to take it.
Or heroin. Something opiate-based. Or just go to the damn hospital.
I'm going to go lay down now.
Love...Ms. Moon
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
This has been the most intense illness I've had in years. The stomach part isn't that bad but the aches and pains are insane. Mr. Moon and I can barely pull ourselves from a prone position and when one of us goes to fetch a pillow or something we say, "See you in about half an hour."
You'd think we could just sleep. I mean, we were awake so much last night when we were dealing with the gastric distress that neither one of us got much sleep. I think that the pain has literally been too much to sleep through.
Man. This sucks. I've had fits of inappropriate laughter followed quickly by tears. When my husband laid down in his recliner beside the sofa where I was lying, I couldn't bear the sound. I told him that my head was going to explode. And then I started crying. And then I started laughing. Because it's all so stupid.
But. Tiny increment by tiny increment we are doing a little better. I washed the dishes and Mr. Moon went out and put the chickens up. I am boiling a chicken breast.
And we'd planned to go to Dog Island tomorrow. Second week in a row.
Fuck.
My cousin and I talked for three hours. Longer than we've ever talked together in our entire lives.
His eyebrows are the same as mine.
We are blood.
How strange.
How wonderful.
I took him into my bedroom and showed him one of my most precious possessions- a picture his father painted when he was a boy and which had always hung over my grandmother's bed when she was alive and since then, always in my room. I offered it up to him but he said, "No, you keep it. I have others he painted."
It was a good night. I am tired but I would not have traded this night for anything.
This is what it looked like when Lily and Owen got back from the dentist and she'd taken him to McDonald's afterwards for a treat and Gibson woke up from where he'd been sleeping in my lap which was perfect because I could study his face and kiss it and whisper, "I love you, my baby boy," and then there they were all together again and I'm sure Gibson was glad, even though he'd been an angel for me. He'd crawled through the house though saying, "Buh? Buh?" looking for his brother because I doubt he can remember an hour where his brother wasn't right there with him.
Isn't Lily beautiful? Owen will only let me take his picture if he can stick his tongue out. But oh, the way he hugs his mama, the way he hugs his brother. The way he hugs me.
Today has been a sticky trap of something like grief but a muddy kind of grief, a grief that goes back a million years and even includes a father gone forever.
A cousin I haven't seen in maybe eighteen years called me today and he's in town and can he come out tonight and I'm having one of those days (sticky grief) where I can't hold one thought in my head for two seconds and yet of course I want this cousin to come out because I haven't seen him in eighteen years, maybe? and is this some sort of cosmic joke? My mother's brother's son calling from town-down-the-road? All of the sibling parents are dead now, the two brothers, the sister.
Well. I look at that picture and I think, "Okay. It's all okay."
And that part surely and purely is and I have May and Hank's voices in my ear saying, "I love you," and I know Jessie does too and they all know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I love them and Owen can stick his tongue out all he likes. He will be loved no matter what.
Which makes it all okay.
When your mother dies it would appear that you have dreams and dreams and more dreams and not all of them to do at all with your mother or at least not that you can figure out and boy, I really did like that tiny trailer I was living in in dreamworld last night with its Indian-print bedspreads and potted plants everywhere. Did not, however, like it when Gibson needed heart surgery, no, I did not. And when I'm not dreaming, I'm awake, wishing I was back asleep, even with the dreams. I am the Ghost of the House, wandering about in Jessie's old bathrobe, the Michelin Woman enveloped in marshmallow, not even the dogs pay me any mind anymore.
Woke to thick spits of rain off roof, dense gray sky and late. Have to get back to town to babysit that boy who does NOT need heart surgery, no, so that his mama can take his brother to the dentist. Wake up, wake up, brush hair, dress. Eat? I ate two crackers at three-thirty a.m. Reading a book that you'd have to pull my toenails out to admit to- it's that bad but it's almost funny and boy, do I need funny right now, you better believe it. Coffee, what would I do without it? Elvis crowing and he's ready to start his day. There have been two hawks in the yard, swooping and crying and he is constantly on alert, protecting his tiny flock. He is one of the finest men I've ever met, judged by any standard.
When your mother dies life goes on and you may miss her more than you can believe or you can drive past the road where she lived and breathe a sigh of relief and it doesn't matter, the world (your world, at least) has been changed but maybe far less than you would have imagined. Still, though, the very atoms of the situation are different and you may find yourself dreaming of hippie print bedspreads in a tiny trailer, you may find yourself lying in bed thinking, "I'm next, I'm next, I'm next," you may have to hand out death certificates like bubblegum, you may have to water the plants but not, I am here to remind you, if it rains. You may lie in bed and remember this and remember that and your mind may be trying to once again plow the dry furrow of it all and try to make something good, something green, at last grow there and if so, you may be glad when you finally get up to find that there has been rain.
I am cooking brown and wild rice and have sliced up many types of vegetables and that's what we're eating for supper.
I still don't have anything to talk about. Today has been about the Secret Wedding Stuff and also Last Will And Testament Executor Stuff and that's about it.
Well, except for Owen and Gibson.
Who are funny and fine.
Gibson is doing this thing when I take his picture where he sways over to his right and smiles like a crazy person. He is posing. But it happens really fast and it's hard to get a good picture because it's such a swift, graceful movement. Here's one attempt.
He's a hoot.
Here's another picture of him just being normal.
He's a pretty little booger, isn't he?
Owen wanted some breath spray I had in my purse which I have been carrying around since last year when it was finished being a prop in a play I was in. I told him it was very spicy and he wouldn't like it but he wanted it anyway. I gave his tongue a tiny blast and he, as expected, was shocked and hated it.
"I never, never, NEVER do that again!" he said after he'd recovered enough to speak.
Fine, boy. You don't have to.
And that's about it. It's a Monday night, I'm about to go cook those vegetables and I honestly don't have one more thing to say. Except that I got a really, really big egg today.
Bless that hen's heart. And woo-woo.
Honest to god. I don't think I have a damn thing to talk about today. This may be a first.
I was going to discuss Facebook and what a complete waste of time it is but that's pretty obvious. Do you suppose that there are people who actually make a living creating those motivational or humorous thingees with pictures of mountain vistas or women drinking wine at ten in the morning? Do we really know if any of those quotes attributed to everyone from the Dali Lama to Mark Twain are accurate? Do we care? Do we care if someone believes that god is a force in their life? Do we believe that Splenda is going to kill us? Does anyone not know that eating double cheeseburgers is probably not good for us?
My favorite "friend" on Facebook is the Rolling Stones. I'm not kidding you.
Okay. This came from Facebook. It's sort of funny.
Also, I do love some people's posts. When they write stuff themselves. My friend Togi, who is a friend in real life as well as in Facebook World writes things like this:
One of my deepest fears has always been that I would awake one day from a week long bender to discover that I had somehow been elected into office.
Facebook is the tool I use to ensure that never happens.
This is a great reason to be on Facebook but I'm pretty sure that
(a) I'm never going to go on a week long bender, and
(b) I am never going to be elected to anything at all.
And I have to admit that I do enjoy some of the pictures that my friends post. Here's a great picture of Billy at work:
That's him on the left.
Yeah. I spend way too much time on Facebook. Lurking. I think Hank was right when he said that the internet was invented for two reasons:
Watching cat videos and porn.
I've never watched porn online. What is wrong with me? Do I really think that GOD is watching me? That if I die someone is going to check out the history on my computer's internet searches and be shocked, SHOCKED I TELL YOU! that I watched internet porn? Once?
Maybe I need more hormones.
Do you realize I haven't left Lloyd since last Wednesday? That's crazy! I'm going to see my grandsons today though, come hell or high water. I think. Lily and I have an errand to run. I can't talk about it because it involves a secret. A wedding secret. I believe I am feeling well enough to go to town to deal with this wedding secret and to see my boys. I miss them bad.
I wonder if I'll wear the black dress when I go to town today. Probably. I wonder if I can wear that dress to Jessie's wedding. I could spiff it up with some lace or something. Right? It would be more appropriate than overalls.
Okay. That's enough of that.
Yeah, yeah, it's another beautiful day in Lloyd. I had weird dreams and woke up about fifteen times. At least. My next door neighbors finally turned off that light that shines into my bedroom at two a.m. I almost cried from relief. No. I still haven't put up curtains or blinds and Mr. Moon hasn't put up a privacy fence, both options we have discussed but will probably never get around to. I'm never going to smoke opium either, most likely although I am keeping that option on the table.
If I ever do smoke opium, I'm going to tell the world on Facebook.
I went for a walk and it was the best thing I could have done. It wasn't a long walk, just a few miles, but guess what I saw?
Purple violets! Scores of them! And it occurred to me that every damn spring I forget that there will be violets. How is that possible? The ones which come up in my yard first are the white ones. When I got home, I checked but they are not out yet. They will be soon. And now I am reminded to look for them.
I spent a lot of time outside. It was too pretty not to. I finally and at last planted those two little baby palms and the camellia. Before my walk I asked my husband to take out a volunteer redbud that I've been meaning to get rid of for years. It was growing in a place where it could never thrive, right underneath a pecan and I've thought about taking it out forever but never got around to it. So finally, I asked Mr. Moon and he dug it up for me and I planted my palms in the bed where it had been and some day, probably long after I'm gone, they will stand tall and true and that thought makes me happy. The planting of trees, whether live oak or palm or magnolia or dogwood, is a thing we do for future generations and I am proud and happy to do that.
I planted the camellia which Kathleen had given me, just to the left of my kitchen porch which means I will see it and be glad for it a dozen times a day, at least.
It felt so good to kneel in the dirt and put those plants in. The air is cool but the sun was warm and my bones and heart felt soothed with rightness. Not righteousness, but rightness. I unwrapped my plants and watered them. I repotted a plant. And then I was tired.
I didn't make it to the store. Again, my husband did me a mitzvah and he went. He bought chicken wings and vegetables and hummus for tonight's game. Me? I shucked my overalls and socks and took another nap. Sleep, these days, is like another life for me. Another country. I lay down and am overwhelmed with the comfort of the bed, the covers, the cool air washing over me and I read for awhile and then I sleep. Last night's sleep was not good. I kept waking up with dream images that were not comforting at all. I finally got up and went to the guest room and there I slept, finally, and well, knowing that my turning and reaching for cool pillows was not keeping my husband awake.
But my naps are good and dreamless. I wake up and have to force myself to rise from the covers, to re-enter life, as it were. But I do. I did.
I went out this evening and took a few more pictures. Here are some blooms from last year's oak-leaf hydrangea, lace now, against the late afternoon sky.
Their beauty is subtle but I am aware of it. Soon the new growth of spring will push these aside but for this moment, they are there, they are beautiful.
And so this day has gone. Mr. Moon and I have danced around together doing this and that and a little while ago, I took his hand and showed him the ash magnolia and how it is starting to leaf and the buck-eye, too, which is coming right along and about to put forth its red blossom. We have watched the birds together at the feeder and discussed the simplest things. He is such a comfort to me.
Here he is, making his veggie tray.
He and our neighbor are watching That Game now and I can only be grateful that he is here, right at home, and I know that if I need anything, anything at all, he will do what he can to offer it.
I have no idea if I will live as long as my mother did. I rather doubt it. But I don't care because honestly, I have had so much joy and goodness handed my way that I already feel as if my life has been filled and overfilled to the brim.
Even now, on this day where it's been a bit of a difficult thing to get through, there have been violets and warm dirt and love.
Mr. Moon liked this morning's pancakes so much that he ate them as slowly as he could and then went and got some more and the whole time he was eating he was trying to figure out how we could market them. He thinks we could sell them frozen so that people could heat them up in their own kitchens.
Mmmm...
Sounds like a lot of damn work to me.
Then he suggested that we do a reality show called Real Housewives Top Chef.
I pointed out that I really only cook about twelve things and it might get boring real fast, especially considering the fact that we don't have wine tastings or cocktail parties or affairs or drive Ferraris. Also- no cleavage. Real Housewives always have cleavage.
They were good pancakes. Mr. Moon has taken to cooking sweet potatoes on the grill, wrapped in aluminum foil. We go crazy and buy the smaller organic ones and I don't know if it's the grill-cooking or the organic goodness but they are the finest sweet potatoes we've ever eaten. I don't even put any butter on mine. Just split 'em open, sprinkle with cinnamon and eat the whole thing. Peel and all. But when he cooked sweet potatoes last night he made two extra and I used a half of one of those in today's pancakes, smushed up with half of a very-finely chopped apple and pecans and lots of cinnamon and some brown sugar. And oat bran. And buttermilk.
They were pretty, too, all brown and golden.
I feel so flat today. I don't know whether I need to force myself to get out and walk or go back to bed. I hear there's some big game on this evening. Haha! If you held a gun to my head I couldn't tell you who was playing. It would probably behoove me to go to Publix and buy something for Mr. Moon and our neighbor to snack on while they watch it. Also, we are almost out of bananas.
I think you'd have to hold a gun to my head to get me to do THAT. Go to the store. Although Lily's working and it would be more incentive to see her for a few seconds than to have someone hold a gun to my head. If someone did that, held a gun to my head, I'd probably just laugh.
I need to quit talking about guns to my head. Honestly, I'm not feeling especially suicidal. Or at all.
It seems so wrong to talk about such things on such a beautiful day. I should be sermonizing and discussing the birds and the way the air feels like so completely perfect in every way. I should be talking about something that really matters, maybe, like how the fucking stupid Boy Scouts are probably going to finally allow homosexuals into their ranks- not because it's the right goddam thing to do but because their financial contributors are finally putting their feet down about it. Money talks, y'all, even to the Boy Scouts of America. Even if Rick Perry (who can kiss my ass) thinks that they should keep their ranks pure.
I could be talking about any of those things.
I could be taking a walk. Or writing a letter or a book or a poem. Nah, scratch that. I'm not a poet. Or doing yoga. Or laundry. Or planning my spring garden. Or making a business plan to sell sweet potato pancakes. Or planning a trip. Or making a list of all the things I am grateful for. Or researching how to lose thirty pounds in thirty days so I don't have to wear a muumuu to Jessie's wedding. A mother-of-the-bride muumuu.
I could be doing any of these things.
But I'm not.
I'm just sitting here having the saddies, as my friend Sue used to say.
I just went outside and got comfortable in a chair, hoping to sit still enough with my camera at the ready to take a nice shot of some of the birds at the feeder. I turned the camera on and got the Recharge Batteries message so I got back up and came in and took the batteries out and put them in the charger and plugged it into the wall.
Wouldn't it be nice if humans had a simple capacity to do the same?
Well. I'm sure there are plenty of ways to do that. Oprah could probably clue me in on a few.
But can she make pancakes?
Oh hell. Probably.
I guess I'll go take a walk. A slow, short walk.
Decent Sunday, y'all.
Love...Ms. Moon
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Thank god I have friends who do not give up on me.
Liz and Kati came out this afternoon with teas and beer and cookies and flowers and tissues to cover every eventuality and then sat on the back porch with me and let me blabber on about how weird things have been, how crazy, how very, very odd.
I feel somewhat ashamed that I let myself go on the way I did. I think there may be a statute of limitations on how long you get to play the my-mother-died card and I am pretty sure I've passed it. I know, I know, there is no such a thing as a statute of limitations but I think mine is getting a bit stale anyway.
I didn't get shit done today. I didn't feel quite as good as I thought I would. I did manage to write two thank-you notes for neighbors who had brought me food after Mother died. I took those and some beautiful eggs to those sweet people and returned a platter. I took another coma nap. And that was about it.
I'll just say this right now- the aftermath of death is funky. Just when you start feeling one way, your emotions get together, have a quick meeting and decide to take the elevator down to the basement and they don't bother to inform you, either. I think that right after a death occurs, things burn real clear and hot, not unlike the fire that Mr. Moon has going right this second to cook our supper on. But then things burn down, leaving you with the ash and residue and you still don't dare to really stick your hand in it because it still has the capability to burn you, buried coals still carrying enough heat to sear your skin right off the bone.
It's tricky. And unavoidable and not to be unexpected in that each death brings up every other death and when it's a parent's death it's a whole entire lifetime of stuff that comes along with it, memories and feelings and regrets and rationalizations and defenses and relief and every kind of a thing and all you can do is try to surf it, try to ride whatever wave comes along.
And if I haven't mixed enough metaphors for you, come back tomorrow because there will probably be more.
I think my azaleas might make it. I sure am hoping they do.
I'm glad to have some of Liz's azaleas from her yard in town where it is always a little warmer, where things bloom a little earlier than they do here out in the middle of nowhere in Lloyd, which, reminds me that Miss Martha, our postmistress, is retiring after 35 years and the postal service is going to cut the PO hours to four a day and I received that news when I went down to check the mail today with a bit of sorrow.
Things change.
Good morning and it is cold in Lloyd today but it is clear and beautiful. It is like a fine Southern novel of a pristine morning and the Spanish Moss is dripping off the trees as is its wont, and the birdbath is frozen solid, rendering the fallen camellias in it suspended like bananas in jello.
Also the duckweed which is there because Owen refilled the birdbath the other day with water from the "pond" which is nothing but a big tub of water which is covered thick in the stuff.
A very, VERY still-life, if you will.
Whatever my illness was that I had seems to have mostly disappeared. I still have a small amount of aching in the big muscles of the back and legs where fever likes to lurk and inflame but mostly, I feel fine and I am so glad of that. My spirits are definitely back up and the sight of Miss Baby this morning, flying from the feeder to back across the fence made me, as always, happy. I still can't believe that neither Mr. Moon nor I have had the puke illness yet but of course, it could still happen. Who knows? Maybe we developed immunity to that particular virus years ago. I have no idea.
Viruses are mysterious entities and almost seem to have their own intelligence. They, like us and the chickens and the duckweed all merely want to survive and thrive and you can't fault them for that.
Mr. Moon and I watched some more Duck Dynasty last night. I am somewhat fascinated by that show, despite the fact that every episode ends with the entire extended family sitting at a table the length of an interstate exit, bowing their heads in prayer and then serving themselves from enough bowls and platters of food to keep a small country alive for a week. Mostly fried food, too, I might add. I know it's a bunch of bullshit, that show. People can't really be as idiotic as these people are portrayed to be and still manage to make millions of dollars in the duck call industry but I do love me some Uncle Si who not only survived the Viet Nam War but also a heart attack which he suffered once while hunting and did not even realize he'd had.
Okay. There is no excuse for that show. None.
But somehow, there is.
I especially love the way they enunciate their words. They have a pattern of speech which I find fascinating. Plus, there is nothing in this world as charming as a couple who have been together since they were fourteen and sixteen and who can still embarrass their grown son while shopping for a mattress.
"You are agile, Miss Kay," said Phil, the patriarch, as his wife rolled about on the huge bed in the furniture store. Agile. Now that is a fine word for a man to use about his wife of forty-seven years. There is a dignity there which I love, even as there is foolishness.
Dignified foolishness. I guess that's what I love about the show if you get right down to it. If there's one thing I've learned in life, it is that foolishness will not only save your life, it will make it worth living. But there's no need not to be dignified about it, whether you are testing out the spoonability of a mattress or cutting off the heads of catfish.
Well, I guess I don't really have anything of any worth to say this morning. We've had our oatmeal this morning. Mr. Moon got his out of the pot first and asked me how much I was going to want.
"You could take all of it and there would be plenty left for me," I said. I do not much care for oatmeal but I eat it because it is good for me. If I put as much butter and maple syrup on my oatmeal as my husband does, I imagine I would like it more than I do.
Anyway, I think I'll go put on my overalls and get my Rubbermaid cart out and wander around and pick up fallen branches and sticks. That's a gentle form of movement which I enjoy and as Lily points out, you really feel as if you had done something when you're finished. There's not a whole lot in life you can say that about. The sun is shining like a glory and the birds are singing and the squirrels are skittering about, their toenails digging into the bark of the trees and their tails are flicking as they race from one branch to the next. Squirrels are the meth-heads of the southern landscape.
It's a good morning in Lloyd and I hope it's a good morning where you are too. Do something foolish today. That's my advice. But be dignified about it. However you may personally define that.
So much better today. I have been up and out of the bed all day except for a nap and although it was a long one, one that felt like cold draughts of water in the desert, I have felt okay being up and doing a few things.
I have made a good soup with so much garlic and onions and vegetables and chicken and peppers and lentils and a few split peas and I will put lemon juice in it before we eat it. It is simmering away. And bread is rising slowly, dense with oats. And I have wrapped my most precious plants because it is supposed to get in the twenties tonight and there go my azaleas which are budded up, purple like tiny candles on the bush and which will probably be brown tomorrow.
I hate that. But. What can I do? The bushes are way too big to wrap and what will be will be. Second year in a row.
I went looking for yeast and could not find any and ended up cleaning the cabinet out. I have rows and rows of packages of coffee which I bought last week during the buy-one-get-one-free frenzy. They are now neatly lined up and I have thrown away some stuff that was far past dates and so that feels good. I cleaned a bathroom sink, I swept a floor. I have thrown away dead flowers, washed vases. Tiny things but enough to make me feel more normal, more as if I have some control over my life. I have not watched one second of TV, crap or otherwise. I went to the post office. I have been out to the hen house more than once and I was gifted with four beautiful eggs. Two brown and two green. I looked through my iPhotos and found two pictures that a friend of Lis's wants to use for a CD cover. One from St. George Island, one from Dog Island. Some one wants to use my pictures! Such a nice thing.
Yes. I think I will live.
And to celebrate that fact and to cut through the blah-di-blah earnestness of this post, I offer you this:
Ah yes. Now I remember what I was doing three weeks ago when my mother fell and broke her ribs which was the beginning of the downward spiral which led to her death.
I was being sick.
And it feels like I've picked up right where I left off.
Yesterday was a huge waste. I made a nest in the guest room bed and I did not get far from it all day. I watched some TV, I read. I slept. I slept and slept and slept. And when Mr. Moon got home, I cried. Everything he tried to do for me made me angry and I felt as if I'd lost my mind and then he finally came and laid down beside me and I turned on my side and he rubbed my back and it was the most wonderful thing anyone ever did for me. He put those huge hands of his on my back and shoulders and it was a comfort and the thought of that, that sweetness and comfort, is making me cry again.
I feel as if I've just completely fallen apart. I guess this was inevitable. I don't know.
Lily got the pukes last night. She texted me around nine that it had begun. And she was up off and on, being sick, until four a.m. I just talked to her and she seems to be on the other side of it now. So hopefully, that household is done with it all for now. Except for the resting, the recovery. It's been a hard January around here. I feel as if I really let myself, I might just cry and cry for days. As it is, I just keep leaking sudden hot tears and then they disappear and I go on, maybe just to sleep, but they're right there, they're perched on the rims of my eyes like those water-ballet ladies in old movies, posed on the edge of the pool, ready to stretch their arms overhead sideways and fall gracefully, one after the other in a synchronized motion.
Well anyway. I let the chickens out and went and picked a few collard leaves in case I manage to make a soup later. In a little while I have to go to the post office. I think there is something there that I have to sign and return via the mail for this executing of the will. This means I have to put on clothing that I can wear out in public. Even though the bar here in Lloyd is set pretty low as to what is acceptable in that area, it is not set low enough to accept what I am wearing now. At least I am wearing a matching pair of shoes which I was not yesterday when, at one point, I looked down to notice that I was wearing a black-and-pink Croc and a blue-and-green Croc. Same style, in my defense. But I've corrected that matter and in fact, when I got out of bed this morning I put on fresh pajama-like clothing instead of merely putting on what I took off last night which I consider to be fairly heroic but GOD. Now I have to put on something else.
Will the torture never end?
Okay. I just made myself smile a little so I guess I'll live. For awhile at least.
I guess I'll go put on some overalls and make that block-and-a-half trek to the Lloyd Post Office which will probably wear me out enough to come home and put my pajama-like clothing back on and get back in bed.
I am looking forward to that. We all need something to live for.
