Wednesday, July 24, 2013


The ocular thing passed before I was completely blinded which I think is good although now my head just feels like a wad of gray cotton which is swollen a little more than it should be.
If gray cotton should be in your head at all which I'm fairly certain it should not be.

I have no energy. It got soaked up into the gray cotton.

I gave Buster some tuna juice. You know, that stuff in the tuna can which is not the tuna. He drank it and then got up and walked to the Glen Den and laid back down on the rug. I think he has something called Old Dog Vestibular Disease. I'm pretty sure my mother had this too, although it wasn't called that because she was an old human and not an old dog. Something similar, anyway. I shall probably get it too.

I want to scratch my face off. I want to scrub it with apricot shells. I want skin again. I put some magical comfrey creme on it. It hasn't done anything magical yet.

The baby chicken is still dead.

I'm going to go put some laundry in the dryer and then I am going to go lay down and feel the weight of the world settle in on my body as it wants to do sometimes, as if it were the world's biggest dog and needs a cozy place to rest. This reminds me of a quote I just read over at Syd's which is this:

"Joy and sorrow are inseparable...together they come and when one sits alone with you...remember that the other is asleep upon your bed."
Kahlil Gibran

I'm not usually a big quote person (for instance, I read one today on Facebook that it took all my will not to comment on saying, "Bullshit!")  but I've been thinking about that concept for awhile now and I think it's pretty true.


Maybe sometimes just when you feel the most sorrowful, joy is in the process of waking up, stretching and opening her eyes, straightening out her pink silk nightie, getting ready to take her shift with you.

It's nice to think about anyway, isn't it?

Which is almost enough sometimes, until the real thing comes along.

Much love...Ms. Moon


  1. I'm sorry I've been away. Wandering and lost; moving slow and constantly moving. I feel in this place - soaking in joy and sorrow as if it were a bath drawn for me. The sorrow at the bottom - the bath salts; the joy floating in the bubbles. It makes perfect sense to me.

    I'm so sorry about your little yellow chick.

  2. Good Gawd, I'm so far behind with your posts, I fear I will get a migraine trying to catch up.
    So sorry about the baby chick, the migraine, the damn critters that keep spooking you awake when you are trying to sleep. Of course I know there are joyful things I've missed too--but oh, it's a weird cottony gray morning here on the west coast.
    Wishing you well .......xoxoxoxo.

  3. I think that quote about joy in a pink nightie is something I'll think about all day. It just might save me.

  4. joy in her pink nightie. oh yes.

  5. Glad that you liked the quote, Mary. I didn't think about the pink nightie, but it sure gives it another twist. Hope that your eyeballs are better. Life is much better here today. Saw Kon Tiki with C. and it was great. Highly recommend it.

  6. I'm having one of those days when the default mood is beset, spooked, tired, oppressed, and that's without,
    thankfully, headaches or expired chicks or staggering dogs. Your instinct to lie down and take a nap always sounds so sane! I hope the afternoon improves mightily. There's a jumping, glowing purple stripe where the blue sky collides with the crest of the hill. Energy of light.

  7. I've been away and missed so much. I've been reading backwards through your posts and I'm a swirling head full of comments. Poor little chicky and poor Baby, poor Buster and poor you. Bless all your hearts.
    I'm glad I'm back and won't be reading your life in reverse now. I'm still tired and deflated after such a whirlwind tour of California and such a steep and startling descent back into my mundane life. I feel like I haven't a worthwhile thing to say, except, yes, I know and I've missed your voice.

  8. I am so sorry to hear that the chick died in the night. I hope it wasn't alone. I have been pushing myself thru the muck today hoping that at some point I will break thru it. I hope your cotton head clears up and that joy descends once again in its up cycle. Sweet Jo

  9. Rachel- There has to be some of all of it, doesn't there? I welcome you back.

    Denise- Honey, there is no catching up. It's all the same in its variations.

    Elizabeth- It has to be silk. Pink silk. Only that will do it for me.

    Angella- It's sort of a lovely image, isn't it?

    Syd- I need to look that up. Is it about Thor Hyerdahl? I read Kon Tiki as a child and loved it.

    A- I think the world is a little wonky today. I do.

    Mel- And I have missed your comments. Getting back into "real" life is always so shocking, isn't it? Be easy on yourself.

    Sweet Jo- No, she wasn't alone. Her mother and sibling were with her. Sometimes I think we can't push through the muck and must only float to the top somehow, like they say you can do with quicksand. Maybe?

  10. At least you're quoting Khalil Gibran, who has some inspirational clout, as opposed to the people some of my Facebook friends quote -- Glenn Beck, for example.

    Sorry about the chick. That is heartbreaking, but as you wrote, we can't afford to get attached, can we? Nature, even if it's nature in a chicken coop, can be savage.

  11. I get migraines like that too and sometimes they affect my state of mind in a subtle way. I'm sorry to hear about the chick. I hope Buster will get better soon, these things can plague old animals so.


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