Deciding Which Doors To Go Through And Deciding How To Go Through Them

Did you see where Sarah Palin said in an interview that if God opens the door for her to run for president in 2012 that she'll plow right through it? Good choice of words, Sarah. Plow on through.


As you may be able to tell, I am in a mood today. It started last night when Mr. Moon was very late coming in from hunting and I ate my dinner all by myself. Now usually I wouldn't care so much and I'm not sure why I cared last night. I'm perfectly content to eat my black beans and watch The Office by myself, but I think maybe it had something to do with him taking our son-in-law hunting for the first time. Jason actually shot a deer- his first- and Mr. Moon shot one too, which necessitated the gutting and skinning of the animals and packing them in ice. Again, this doesn't usually bother me and as I have said, I'm happy to have the meat in the freezer. It's good, clean meat, humanely killed.


But there was just something about knowing that Jason had shot his first deer that sort of got to me on a lot of different levels. He's a meat cutter by trade, so he's not exactly unaware of how those pork chops in the package got there, but shooting an animal dead certainly takes the knowledge to a new plane of certainty. It felt as if he'd achieved some sort of milestone and I was proud of him, but it also made me sorrowful.


I'm not a vegetarian but I know that if I had to kill and gut and skin my own meat, I would be, which is hypocritical and stupid. In some ways, I'm ashamed of myself. I think that somewhere inside me, I feel it's wrong to kill animals to eat them, and yet, even though I don't personally go out there and kill them, I enjoy the results of others doing it.


So there was all of that ambivalence on top of the fact that I had started cooking the beans around ten-thirty in the morning and here it was eight-thirty at night and the men were outside, gutting and skinning and I was too hungry to wait for them.


But it was more than that. It was the contrast between what makes a man a man and what makes a woman a woman and it seems to me that traditionally, it's the creating of life that makes a female a woman while it's the taking of life that makes a male a man. I've thought about this for years, especially as applies to war, and it makes me sorrowful for men. I know that killing something or someone isn't actually what it takes to make a man. Far from it, but somehow, for some reason, we tend to think it is.

And let's face it- in our caveman days, we basically had two tasks:

Stay alive and make more people.

Staying alive required hunting for food and staying safe from predators, both the animal and fellow human ones, while making more people required giving birth. And thus we evolved. Men hunted and protected and women gave birth. And also learned to grow things, which is another way of creating life.


Okay. Of course it's all a lot more complicated than that, but do not tell me that this is not still a part of how our brains are wired.


And so I hugged Jason and told him I was proud of him and then I said, "You've really got something to think about now."

He tried to shrug it off in a oh, it was nothing sort of way, but he knew what I was talking about. When he left, I gave him a piece of buttered bread just out of the oven to eat on his way home and somehow, that seemed very symbolic too. Like maybe, here- you've done the man thing and brought home game, now partake of the woman thing, which is the ability to take grains and yeast and salt and create bread.


I loved him even more for going out there in the cold woods and bringing home meat but it made me sad, too, because that requires a death. And it also made me sad, in a way, because Jason's father died when he was very young and so he never got to learn the manly skills from his own father, the way Mr. Moon did. I'm grateful that Jason wants to learn from my husband. It's a sort of grace they share. But still, it's a reminder of the profound loss Jason had when he was so young.


Oh. I over think-things and I let things mean more than they should. I know that.

I wish I didn't. I wish I could just let things be what they are. The cigar is sometimes just a damn cigar. Get over yourself and smoke it.

Etc.

But that's not who I am. I am an over-thinker. I am an over-analyzer.


And I can't help it.



And now, it's my job to help my daughter Lily learn to cook deer meat. I was thinking about that in yoga this morning. She needs a crockpot. She needs her mother.


And this thought sort of settled me. A man doesn't just pick up a rifle and go into the woods and shoot game. He goes with someone who knows what they're doing, who can pass that knowledge on. Jason did that with Mr. Moon who learned from his own daddy.


And Lily will learn to cook the meat from me.


Knowledge is passed on, passed down. That, too, is why the human race is still alive.


I will teach my daughter what I know about cooking the meat that her husband has learned to kill from my husband. This is the way of life, even here in 2008. We're not cavemen and women, but we still need to eat. And there's something very primal and very satisfying about eating meat that was killed in the woods, just as there is something very primal and fitting about eating greens from the garden, even though there's a Publix on every corner.


Primal and satisfying like teaching the younger ones the passed-down knowledge of the older ones.

Doors don't just fly open. Someone usually holds them open for us and we can choose whether or not to go through them and we can also choose whether or not to plow through them or to take our time, waiting patiently for the right moment like a hunter in the woods, waiting to take his shot, like a cook in the kitchen, waiting for the bread to rise.

Mr. Moon held the door open for Jason last night and he stepped through it.

Grace-fully.

I have no ambivalence about that. None at all. And I hope Jason doesn't, either.

Ha! I'm Back, I'm Black, I Can't Figure Out How To Post Pictures.

I'm writing this on Mr. Moon's Gateway computer which feels wrong, wrong, wrong.

Sort of like if I were a Voodoo Priestess from a tropical island and the only church I could find to slaughter a chicken in to study its entrails was a Catholic church in downtown St. Paul, Minnesota.

Or something like that.

Maybe it's the way the screen says Microsoft Corp. when you start this black beast up. When I start up my MacBook (which I rarely do- I just leave it in sleep mode most of the time) a friendly little apple pops up in the middle of the screen. That Microsoft Corp. thing makes me feel like I should be rolling up my sleeves to post some data, not settling back to let my mind go where it will, my fingers following.

Maybe it's because this is a black beast. It's quite literally black while the MacBook is white and I feel certain I do not need to point out the symbolism there. As I have said before, men seem to like the black background for their blogs, women tend to go for the lighter colored backgrounds. And when you're perusing the shelves at your local Blockbuster, all the Man Movies are in the dark-colored cases whereas the more chick-flicky movies are not.

This reminds me of a joke that Miss Maybelle tells concerning black roosters and white kittens but I shall not post it here. I'm not sure why; it's not like my youngest child, Miss HoneyLuna doesn't know the joke. But still.

I think I'll get the MacBook back from the shop before the week is over. I sincerely hope so. When I took it in, I set it on the counter, cradled it in my arms, laid my body gently over it and said, "Joseph, this is my life."
Joseph, who has been dealing with me and my Macs for well over a decade said, "You'd be surprised how many times a day I hear that."
"Yes," I replied, "But I mean it more than anyone else does."

I doubt he believes me but I don't doubt that Mac owners are different somehow than PC owners. I have a theory that people who have driven Volkswagens at some point in their lives are more apt to use Macs. We like a machine with personality. Apple knows this and capitalizes on it. They don't come right out and say it, but if you watch their commercials, you can see that they know their customer base really likes to think of themselves as special and cooler than the rest of the computer-using world. We like to think of ourselves as the artists, the musicians, the writers, the poets.

I'm not sure I could write a poem on this computer with it's clickity-clack keys, it's scary blue lights.

I love the way, when a Mac goes to sleep, the little indicator light doesn't just glow steadily, it breathes. It ebbs and flows softly, like the waves, like a heartbeat, like the ebbing and flowing of day into night and back again.

All right. This is crazy. I sound like a teenaged girl, yearning for her far-away lover, talking about the way he smells, the way he kisses, the way his hands look when he's chopping garlic for soup.

I'll stop now.

It's cold. My yard is a mess of plants turned to mush and I should begin the process of cutting back and hauling off what I cut. I should go take a walk. I should eat my oatmeal. I should make the bed, do some laundry, put the beans on to soak. I should go cure cancer, comfort the dying, ease the pain of the birthing, help the lame walk and perhaps see if Obama needs me for the transition team.

Or maybe ask Wanda Sykes if she needs a personal assistant.

Do you have her number?

Anyway, I've been thinking that I enjoyed my Ask Ms. Moon post so much that it might be fun to answer some real questions, should I get them. So if you have any questions please post them to mmerluna@aol.com or, just leave them as a comment here and I will do my best to answer them. Any and all subjects considered. As we all know, I certainly have at least an opinion on almost everything, even without the factual information to back that opinion up.

And if I don't get any questions, I'll just make up some more.

Hopefully I'll be doing that on a MacBook made of purest white material, its corners rounded and its surface cool to the touch, it's keyboard silent and swift, its shortcuts known to me and as familiar as a lover's touch, it's oh-so-sensitive and elegant little mousie which I can run two fingers down, causing the page to move effortlessly.

Oh. Sorry. I went off there for a second to another place.
The place of all things Apple. The place of poetry and wonder.

Stay warm. Be cool. Even on a Gateway.

My Joy, My Life. My MacBook.

It must be done.

I must take the MacBook into the shop.

And I am FREAKING OUT!

But there are problems and I have less than a month left on Apple Care and it really just has to be done.

I think the main problem is that I am completely and utterly addicted to all the sweetness that my MacBook offers me. This blog. The short story I'm working on that is just about done and that I really like. I think. The news. Everyone else's blogs.
My e-mail.
Oh. My e-mail.

It's where I keep my pictures, my many unfinished novels, my poems, both the good ones and the shitty ones. It's the magic portal to all my cyber friends. It's my communication device, my source of information, my way to reach out to the world.

I will feel bereft without it, this magic box. This little white plastic and who-knows-what-toxic-materials box with its friendly Mac personality, its superfast response, it's forgiving nature and its patient napping when I am otherwise engaged.

I'm about to take it and place it in the hands of another. Listen- as much as I love my children, if one of them asks to use my MacBook, I shudder. After 32 years of motherhood and sharing my time, my space, my clothes, my make-up, my very life with my four children, this little machine is mine. All mine. And yet, I am about to (oh my god) leave it with a technician. Whom I trust. Whom I like.

But still.

And I am not handling this well. And I'm not a person who gets attached to inanimate objects. I've never named a car. Okay, I named the voice in one. That voice who would say, "Passenger door is ajar." I think I named her Elenor. Or something.

But my MacBook isn't an inanimate object. It's not a car. It's not a fancy blender. It's not even a piece of heirloom jewelry.

It's an extension of my very soul.

And yes, thanks for asking, I AM mentally ill.

But I must gird my loins. I must take it in. So my voice may be silent for a few days. Please forgive me if I don't comment on your blog. I will as soon as I am able.

And in the meantime, pray for me now and in the hour of my need. Which will be about fifteen minutes after I leave the parking lot of Mac Business Systems, sobbing into the handkerchief clutched in my damp fingers and which will last until they call to tell me to come pick up my baby.

Good-bye for now. Good-bye.

My god, I'm going to miss you.

WHAT???!!!!

Wanda Sykes is gay?

Oh man. She just made it to the top of my possible-girlfriends-if-Mr. Moon-ever-leaves-me list.

I feel certain she'll barely be able to contain her joy when she hears this news.

At Home

Yesterday, Mr. Moon and I went out for a walk and headed down to the creek to see what the past few days' rain had brought. The last time we'd been out there, a week ago, the water was running low in the banks and we'd had a wonderful time, following the lazy moving water through the woods and down to Highway 59.

This week we didn't have the time we'd had the week before so we didn't spend too much time following the creek, but it's impossible not to wend your way beside it for a little distance, at least. There are cypress trees and the high white sand banks, the oak and pine in the woods around it, the deep hollows which I suppose were sink holes, and such sweet silence except for the birds and the sound the water makes as it rushes over fallen logs.

"We're lost again!" I always tragically announce as we walk, but of course we never are although it feels as if we might be, but in an enchanted, fairy-tale way, not a real, actual way.

The whole experience feels enchanted with the silence and the trees and the slow-moving water. It's so beautiful and I love it.

As we walked home I told Mr. Moon that we should get us a little piece of that land and build a hut on it. "It wouldn't even need electricity," I said, "Just a tiny little place where we could sleep and build a fire."
"And what would you do there? Spend the weekend?"
"With you, I'd hope," I said and he laughed at me.

But I think it would be great to have such a place. I love my house tremendously but there's something so compelling about the idea of a small, snug place to lay my head, to cook a simple meal.

I've lived in so many places. I've lived in a ten by fifty foot trailer and it made a fine and cozy place to live with two children and a husband although I did constantly dream that I found new rooms I'd never known about and was always a bit sad when I'd wake up to discover that no, there were no unexplored places in the trailer. I've lived in a very old shack which had no running water and it was cold in the winter and like an oven in the summer but I loved its wooden walls, its tilting floors. I've lived in a big, solid, brick Colonial house with a pool, too, and I never felt at home there, never could sleep there, although I appreciated it for everything it was.

Of course the place I live now is my dream home and I still pinch myself sometimes to think that yes, this is my bed in this house, this is my kitchen, these are my floors and walls and porches. At least for now.

My son is longing for a house of his own. He lives in a funky, red brick apartment on Monroe street and he likes his apartment fine, but he recently found a house for sale that he is lusting after. It's small, but far larger than his apartment and was built in 1938 by the man who lived there until now and it's got some great built-in cabinets and a breakfast nook with a mosaic-tiled table and the original woodstove is still in the kitchen.

I understand why he'd want that house, as small and in need of fixing up as it is.

We all want our own hut, our own snug and cozy place to come home to at night, to keep our stuff in, to lay our heads down in, to cook our meals in.

Mr. Moon's cousin, whom he hasn't seen in about a million years, is staying in Tallahassee for a few days in her RV. She's spent two and a half years now, traveling solo around the USA in her "rig" as she calls it, and I have to give the woman her props. She's older than I am and brave enough to drive and park that thing, which is almost as big as the trailer I lived in with three other people. Sometimes she stays at RV campgrounds and sometimes she stays in Walmart parking lots and she seems sincerely happy to be living that sort of life. There's a romance to it, but it doesn't appeal to me. Thankfully, Mr. Moon is too tall to stand up in an RV, much less live in one, so he'll never drag me around the country in a metal and plastic box I'm expected to cook in, for which I am grateful.

I do love a nice motel or hotel room, though, and remember many that I have stayed in fondly, from the the very humble "tourist cabin" in Key West with the rattling AC in the window and the skittering lizards in the overgrown hibiscus and bougainvillea outside the door to the marble-floored two rooms and a balcony overlooking the Caribbean in Cozumel where we stayed several times. I always, always cried when we had to leave that place. It's a damn timeshare thing now so we'll never stay there again, but Lord, do I cherish the memories. Then again, I cherish the memories of another place on the island we stayed called La Pepita, with its paper-thin small green towels and the most uncomfortable toilet seat I ever had occasion to sit on. But there were singing cardinals in a cage in the courtyard there and the maids chattered to each other as they washed the sheets and towels by hand in that same courtyard and there were books to borrow in the small office where the keys were kept.
There was charm there, too, and I look back on it and it seems like enchanted days and nights.

There is joy in having your very own place where you live that you love, and there is joy in living (and maybe loving) for a few days and nights in a place you'll never see again, whether in a big city or on the side of a mountain, or beside a harbor where boats are docked. A place where no one knows you and where every view is a new one, every street or path takes you to a place you've never been before but where you can walk back down to your room and find your toothbrush and the book you're reading, the bed where you'll be sleeping, the ubiquitous TV and remote- a home away from home, the place to lay the head.

Dogs make dens and so do turtles and meerkats. Crabs have holes in the sand where they scuttle to when they feel threatened. Birds make nests and so do chimps, bending down the branches of tall trees to sleep in at night. Termites build mounds and ants do too, great cities of cooperation and industry where they live and work and feed their queens.

Humans live in huts and cabins and caves and houses made of everything from animal dung and dirt to marble to metal to buffalo hides. It is the nature of beasts everywhere to want a place to feel safe and protected from the elements and outside world. Our homes are our castles, whether they are made of stone or stick, and when we enter them, we can shed our watches, our shoes, our bras and our stress.

We are at home.

Some people have a lot of homes and I don't think I'd like that. I wouldn't want to be Oprah and have houses everywhere. That's way too much trouble and way too much work. Does she take her pillow with her whenever she changes domiciles? And how does she decide where to stay and when? I couldn't be bothered with all of that.

But a hut on the creek? Now that would be fine for a weekend here and there. I could pack my pillow (I do take it everywhere I stay) and a can of hash and a few eggs and some water and walk there, hopefully with Mr. Moon by my side. It would be a sweet little other-home if he were with me because the bottom line is, home is where the heart is, and where he is, there's my heart. And I guess that's what it all boils down to for me.

I'd even travel the country in an RV if that's what he really wanted to do. I guess.

Meanwhile, here we are, in this place, this dream home, and my heart is happy and it's almost as good thinking about that dream cabin in the woods as it would be to have it. I can see us sitting outside, drowsy in the sun, listening to the birds and the water and being quiet enough that a deer might amble by.

Perhaps in a parallel universe we are there right now and perhaps, it is nap time.

Sweet dreams. Sweet little dreams.

How To Get A Foot Like Jennifer Lopez's Ass

Be a Foley artist.

Have a whole lot of adrenalin going because the performance has just begun and the audience- uh, IS there an audience? Definitely needs waking up.

Stand there, waiting for your cue to make the sound of a car hitting a metal garbage can. When the cue comes, hit the garbage can as you're supposed to with the iron rod you're holding. Then, as practiced successfully many times, kick the can to make the sound of the car knocking the garbage can down the sidewalk.

However, to get the desired Jennifer Lopez ass effect on your foot, kick the can improperly, which is done by getting your stupid high-heeled foot UNDER the bottom of the can and then, with all the adrenalin in your body, kick.

Realize within nanoseconds that you have just REALLY FUCKED UP YOUR FOOT.

Try not to hobble across the stage to retrieve the garbage can to put it in place for its next use (the breaking of china over it).

Note with pleasure that indeed, the audience is now awake.

Spend the rest of the performance, surreptitiously checking your foot (the tights are torn, making viewing easier) for damage.

Sigh.

We must all, I suppose, suffer for our art.

It doesn't really hurt so I doubt I've broken anything, but I can feel the fluid moving in it when I walk, which is a bit disconcerting.

Other than that, the play was fun. And tonight? I'll not be kicking the can in an improper way.

And let me explain the title of this post. The google search which brings the most people to my blog is How To Get An Ass Like Jennifer Lopez's and the second most googled search to bring people over to my place is Update on the Jennifer Lopez Ass.
So really, I'm just trying to get more traffic but let's face it- anyone who googles foot and Jennifer Lopez's ass is going to be sadly disappointed by the lack of kinkiness which is blessourhearts.

So if you got to this post by that sort of googling- I apologize. I got you here under false pretenses.

I also apologize to every one for the state of my toenails and animal-like hooves, although really, would you honestly think that Ms. Moon's feet would look even THAT good?

I didn't think so.

Not A Poser

I was in yoga class this morning in child's pose, which is one of my favorite poses because it's a resting pose and damn, who doesn't love a resting pose?

I was sleeveless today as it's gotten quite warm here again and I was enjoying the way everything in yoga felt, as if all my body parts were crying out, Yes, Yes, Yes! Thank you for paying us some attention here. Thank you for stretching, thank you for reaching, thank you for breathing! and I was happy. The rain was pouring down outside and we could hear it and see it from the cozy room we were in and we've been so dry here lately and it all just felt like a blessing, being there, doing what my body wanted, listening to the rain.

And then I made the mistake of turning my head in child's pose and catching a glimpse of my arm.

Oh my god. Oh dear. Oh shit. What the fuck???!!

The inside part of my upper arm was, well, I don't really know how to describe this. And let me insert right here that I do have muscles in my arms. They're not completely flabby or wing-like. But. Oh dear. But.
The flesh, how shall I say this? Was hanging in wrinkles and the meat of my arm was in something like blobs within that hanging, wrinkly flesh.

Now let me tell you that if I had seen this vision of body-aging just five years ago, or perhaps even five months ago, I would have shot up from child's pose into adult's horror pose and started screaming.

As it was, and as it is, I did nothing except to take note of the further degeneration of the flesh and continue on with what I was doing. I am not exactly inured to such horrifying (and seemingly sudden) changes in my body, but I am no longer as shocked as I used to be.

I feel certain that I've said this before, but it's worth repeating: When I was young(er), I would look at older women and the way that gravity had fought and won with their flesh and I would think Thank God that will never happen to me. Now why I thought that, I have no idea. Did I really believe that I, and I alone, would escape the ravages of aging? Or did I think I would be one of those who died young and left a gorgeous corpse?

I don't know. But either way, it was faulty thinking.

But here's the kicker: Inside, in my mind, and even in my body, I feel hardly different than I did twenty years ago back when my flesh was firm and unwrinkled. I am more flexible now than I was then and in some ways, stronger. I eat better, I exercise more, I am leaner. And so it's easy to forget (especially if I only look at my face in the mirror with my glasses off) that I am indeed aging and looking like it too.

So when I catch the flesh doing something decidedly old-womanly or I see a picture of myself wherein my neck is doing that thing, that wrinkly thing, I am kicked rudely out of denial and must face the facts.

The facts being that it's only going to get worse.

Sigh.

Well, they always say you're only as old as you feel, which in my case is about thirty-four. Until, that is, I am given a visual reminder of the truth. And then I feel like Nora Ephron who wrote that book, I Feel Bad About My Neck, because I do. I almost feel as if I must apologize.

Sorry, y'all. I meant to wear my real face and body but for some reason, I can't locate them. I've looked everywhere! Please forgive me. I'm sure I'll find them soon.

But I won't. I will never find them because they are not here any more. They are gone and gone forever. I can no more aspire to be this:



Than I can to be this:



But I can aspire to be this:



Which is not that bad. In fact, it's pretty wonderful.

And I do. I aspire to be that.

That strong, that beautiful, and apologizing to no one.

The Toys Of Our Trade

Okay, okay. I am the world's worst photographer and I admit it.

What I wanted to capture was a little bit of the craziness that my friend Kathleen and I have put together for the radio plays we're the Foley artists for at the Monticello Opera House, being performed this weekend.

The plays are old, actual radio play scripts from the forties and fifties, ranging from the ridiculous to the absurd and the actors stand in front of the microphones and read the scripts and drop them where they are, just as they did back in a real radio studio back in the day.
The day which, I feel I must point out, when people were obviously far more entertained by far less than they are now.



We're doing a Fibber McGee and Molly, an Our Miss Brooks, a sci-fi thing called Plan X, a bit of a news broadcast from WW II Germany (I think), a sort-of horror piece called Strange (which wouldn't scare a high-strung six year-old), and a long, melodramatic piece called Dark Journey, which we have all taken to calling Dark Endless Journey.

For these pieces, Kathleen and I get to do the sound effects. We're supposed to do them all using technology they would have had in the forties and fifties and we mostly do although we cheat a little bit here and there with prerecorded sounds for a rocket, a ray gun, a car crash.

Things like that.

But it's amazing what you can come up with without the technology. You see that fan? With that fan and a piece of paper, Kathleen can make the most convincing sound of a fighter plane you've ever heard. We've got a miniature door to open and close, an old telephone to pick up and slam down, a garbage can to kick (and boy, is that satisfying!) china to break (same there), an unidentified piece of farm equipment and a sash weight to create the sound of a safe closing, train whistles, Jello to pour for the sound of a Martian drink I can't remember the name of, wax paper to rattle, a toy piano to play, an entire cabinet built to load up with crazy, crazy stuff to open for Fibber McGee's closet, a turkey call, toy ray guns and noise-makers, frog clickers, jewelry and small brass bells to create the sound of an oriental marketplace, and a slide whistle.

I'm sure I've forgotten something.

And the knitting? That's mine. I knit on stage when I'm not producing sound effects. Kathleen usually crochets. We drink something out of coffee cups (water in our case) and pass a flask when the going gets tough. That's part of our little schtick. Really, Kathleen and I get to have the most fun because we not only get to break china and do slide whistles, we also get to do all of this with the straightest faces you can imagine, just two working women wearing hats from the forties, doing the prosaic job of creating footsteps and ray gun sounds on the radio. We come wearing our gloves, we put then away, we sit in our stools, we settle down to business.



We try very hard not to trip in our pans of cat litter which we walk in to make the sounds of trudging through the Martian sands.

I'm going to be really sad when this is all over on Saturday night. Oh, I won't mind eating dinner with my husband at a reasonable hour and I won't miss the dark drives to and from Monticello, but damn! I AM going to miss playing with my friends, cracking each other up, the different personalities, the joy of seeing it all come together, the hilariousness when it doesn't.

Which is why I'll have to try and get involved with the next production. I wouldn't mind being an "actor" again, and I'm sure I will be some day. But until then, I'm happy to be anything they'll let me be. It's addicting, this stage thing. Not so much the performances for me anyway; it's the people I get to play with. It's the fun we get to have. It's the feeling I get when I drive up to the Opera House and get out of my car and lug all my gear up the beautiful old steps to the theater and am greeted by people I've come to know and really care about. It's looking out and seeing all those seats and it's thinking about all the people who have been on both sides of that stage in the last hundred years and knowing I am, in my own little way, being part of it.

And we get applause too!

Shit. Am I lucky or what?

Real Good Dancers

See that picture there? That's a picture of two very handsome men in the front seat of the driver's Model A Ford. Or it could be a Model T. Maybe a Model C? I have no real idea.

But I know who the men are.

The one on the left is Paw-Paw. The one on the right is Mr. Moon.

Paw-Paw is Billy's grandfather and Billy is bringing him and Maw-Maw (whom, as you might assume, is Billy's grandmother) out to the house this morning. Then we're going to Monticello to the Mexican goods place where I'll covet the tin merry-go-round again and we might even go to lunch.

I'm excited.

I've never met a more gracious and loving couple than Paw-Paw and Maw-Maw who have welcomed Mr. Moon and me into their home down in Tate's Hell more than once. They've fed us and liquored us up and let us enjoy the beauty of where they live. One Sunday afternoon, Paw-Paw took us on a boat ride up Doyle's Creek, a little ribbon of water that twists and turns through North Florida jungle that I doubt anyone's truly tread since the Ancients.

Besides being gracious and loving and welcoming, Paw-Paw and Maw-Maw are just a gorgeous couple. Every time I see Paw-Paw I get a little extra volume out of my heart-beat. He's that handsome. And Maw-Maw is just as beautiful as he is but she carries a gun in her purse so I'm always sure not to flirt too obviously with her man because she's a woman that not only has a gun, but would not hesitate to use it to defend her love.

Mind your manners around Maw-Maw!

But really, it's not the thought of the gun that makes me mind my manners around Billy's grandparents. It's the way they hug you and make you feel so special and loved. If you're a friend of Billy and Shayla's, you're their friend too.

Come on in. I've fried up some sausage and made a pot of gumbo and over there's the beer and have you seen my hummingbirds? Now y'all can sleep down here in this room and we'll be doing some oysters later so just make yourselves at home. Here, come sit by me. We're so glad you're here.

That's the sort of people they are.

And every time I'm around them, I'm reminded of how damn good people can be.

I'm reminded of how lucky I am to know them.

And I sort of feel like celebrities are coming to my house today.

Maw-Maw and Paw-Paw.

I'd rather spend time with them than with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, who, if they're really, really lucky, will be together as long as Billy's grandparents, who are going through life together as gracefully and romantically as a matched set of ospreys flying through the world, and especially down by the Creek, making everyone they meet fall in love with them, making everyone they meet feel lucky, feel loved, feel cherished.

And having fun.

Y'all want some cane syrup on those biscuits? Jessie, get out your mandolin. Play us a tune.

It's always a dance with Maw-Maw and Paw-Paw.

I better go put on my dancing slippers. They'll be here soon.

Ask Ms. Moon

Dear Ms. Moon,
I thought you were going to be out of blogging commission while your MacBook was in the shop. What's the deal?
Wondering

Dear Wondering,
I'm too freaked out at the thought of being without it for days on end and so am just using it plugged in all the time. I may require therapy for this problem. Not for the MacBook, but for myself.
Thanks for paying attention,
Ms. Moon
****************

Dear Ms. Moon,
Speaking of therapy, how is yours going?
Curious

Dear Curious,
I believe I am about to terminate by phone. Although I am sure that my therapist is fine and effective, I am having a hard time relating to her. She dresses too well and her beauty freaks me out. Plus, she's always mentioning her girlfriends and I am jealous beyond belief that I am not one of them.
I hope that answers your question.
Ms. Moon

***************

Dear Ms. Moon,
What does all that pink, plastic crap they sell have to do with breast cancer?
Confused.

Dear Confused,
I think all that pink, plastic crap they sell causes breast cancer.
Ms. Moon

***************

Dear Ms. Moon,
What are you reading right now?
Your sister in literature,
Bookaphile

Dear Bookaphile,
At the moment I am reading a Francine Prose novel called Primitive People, and listening to that old classic by Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger In A Strange Land on tape.
Not at the exact same moment, I assure you.
Ms. Moon

******************

Dear Ms. Moon,
Haven't you read SIASL before?
Bookaphile

Dear Bookaphile,
Many times. I have always said there were two kinds of hippies: Lord of The Ring hippies and Stranger In A Strange Land hippies. I was one of the latter.
Ms. Moon

*****************

Dear Ms. Moon,
Doesn't the sexism in Stranger In A Strange Land disturb you?
Bookaphile

Dear Bookaphile,
Not as much as the fact that the first ten times I read it I didn't even realize it WAS sexist.
Phew.
Ms. Moon

*****************

Dear Ms. Moon,
Then why are you taking the time to listen to it in its entirety?
BP

Dear BP,
All the hot, hot, hot Martian/Terran sex, of course!
Ms. Moon

****************

Dear Ms. Moon,
My boyfriend keeps telling me that he's not good enough for me. What does this really mean?
In Love

Dear In Love,
It means he's not good enough for you.
Ms. Moon

**************

Dear Ms. Moon,
Why are you so passionate about gay rights and the legalization of gay marriage?
Unsure

Dear Unsure,
Let me assure you that my passion stems from nothing more than selfishness. Were Mr. Moon ever to leave me, I might decide to give up men forever and I do know some mighty swell women. I'm a gal that likes to keep her options open.
See what I'm saying here?
Ms. Moon

**************

Dear Ms. Moon,
Does this mean you believe people can choose to be gay or not?
Indignant

Dear Indignant,
Not at all. I am saying we should all be able to legally marry the person we love, no matter what sex that person happens to be.
Ms. Moon

**************

Dear Ms. Moon,
What's the deal with religion?
Searching

Dear Searching,
Fuck if I know. I can completely understand the human need to seek answers to life's greatest questions such as, "Where do we come from?" and "Where do we go when we die?" and "Why do babies' necks smell so damn good?"
Religion, as I see it, is an attempt at answering these and similar questions. However, my problem with religion arises when they start making rules saying things such as a male child's foreskin must be cut off when he is eight days old or he can't go to heaven. Or, you must wear sacred underwear to enjoy eternal life. Or, god frowns on dancing and stylish hairdos and they are forbidden.
And so forth.
And it's not so much that I don't understand why these rules were made up in the first place. I can just hear the priests of old sitting around, chewing the fat, drinking some wine, smoking some weed and saying things like,
"Hey! Let's tell them that if they have sex with their wives when they're on the rag, it's an abomination!"
"Cool! What's an abomination?"
"I'm not sure, but I think it's really, really bad."

No. What I don't understand is why humans would not only believe this shit, but go to war to defend it and try to make others believe it too.
Thanks for asking.
Ms. Moon

***************

Dear Ms. Moon,
What's the secret to a happy marriage?
Bride-To-Be

Dear Bride-To-Be,
Biscuits.
And sometimes beer.
Oh wait. That's the secret to MY happy marriage.
As to anyone else's, I have no clue.
Good-luck,
Ms. Moon

************
Dear Ms. Moon,
Didn't you just make up all these questions yourself?
Skeptical

Dear Skeptical,
Yes. But only because no one else had the decency to ask them.

Love...Ms. Moon

What Color Are The Lens Of Our Glasses?

I've been thinking a lot about the filters we have in our minds that affect the way we think about things. These filters may have been put in place by the religions we were raised in or the life experiences we've had. They are probably what affect us most when we make decisions or opinions and we probably don't even think about them and the way they affect our thought, but I believe we all have them.

When I was very young, I lived in a world where there were very few opportunities to know any African-Americans and if I did, it was in the capacity of people (usually women) who worked for other people as maids. Thus, one of the first filters was placed in my mind:
Black people were the people who cleaned up after white people.
And believe me, this was not an untrue stereotype.

The first real opportunity I had to meet a black kid my own age was when the preacher of the little Community Church my family attended decided in the early sixties that it was time to do his part to integrate and he invited a black church to join our church one Sunday. He lost a lot of members that week, as I recall.

But one of the members of the other church brought his son with him and because our church was so small we didn't usually have Sunday school for the kids and for one reason or another, the kids were all excused to go and just play, which we did, by the banks of the Sebastian River where the church sat. I remember that boy and how amazed I was at the fact that although his skin was dark, his palms were as pink as mine and he showed me how to put the fingers of my left hand together and hold them with the fingers of my right hand and whistle between the thumbs- a talent I still possess.

The early sixties were a hard, hard time in this country. Signs like the one above were everywhere in the South and as a child, I didn't understand them. My family was not overtly prejudiced and were staunch Democrats and I recall when LBJ was running for president, being called a nigger lover because I supported him in the way that a child will support whoever her family is voting for.

I wondered about that. Was I a nigger lover? What did that mean? That boy who taught me to whistle with my fingers was awfully nice and he was the only black person I really had ever met, so maybe I was. I certainly had no reason to hate him.

Another filter had been put in place in my mind.

Or perhaps two- the one black person I'd met had been sweet and he'd taught me something, and the white kids I went to school with hated black people but there seemed to be no reason why, as far as I could tell. I don't think they knew any more black people than I did. I learned that hate did not have to have a basis in any true knowledge or experience. That it could just bloom wherever it was planted.

And then on the television I saw Martin Luther King and I heard his ringing voice of truth and grace. I saw African Americans sitting peacefully at lunch counters, trying to get a meal and being arrested. I saw little black children whom the National Guard had to protect in order to attend school while white people shouted oaths, the hatred and ignorance dripping from their faces, making them ugly.

These images gave me more filters through which to judge races, especially my own race.


And then came images like this:



And like this:



in magazines and on the news.

And yet another filter was put into place:
White people were cruel to black people. Black people were treated not just unfairly, but horribly.

And I was white.

Although I had never once in my life threatened a black person in any way, I felt guilty by the mere fact that my skin, like the skin of the hateful, cruel people, was white. And all my life I have wondered if black people hated me for this skin, the same way that many whites hate blacks simply for the color of their skin.

I have to tell you that I have never been treated hatefully by a black person. I have lived in black communities, I have been one of the few white faces in a sea of dark faces in bars or at concerts or once in a church. And I was never treated with anything but respect.

Which somehow made me feel more guilty and it made me wonder if that respect wasn't merely a culture thing- that African Americans have been raised (especially the older ones) to show respect to whites when no respect had been earned.

I've been called "Ma'am" by black men more than thirty years older than me, which always makes me want to scream. Instead, I have nodded and smiled, keeping my screams inside me.

I've tried so hard to be a representative of the white race which is not prejudiced, which is not hateful, which doesn't judge on skin color. But of course, I always have. I see a black person and all the filters put into my brain click in and I try my fucking hardest to be open, to be kind, to not show any sort of race-based bullshit superiority.

We can't help it- the way black folks generally treat whites and white folks generally treat blacks, has been affected so deeply by the fact of our history together here, starting with the fact that the black ones were enslaved by the white ones, which is such a hideous and basic truth that it has seemed that nothing, NOTHING could chip those filters from our brains.

I heard an interview on NPR yesterday (of course- where else?) with a black Southern Baptist minister who is also old enough to remember the whites only signs. To remember the way white law arrested, beat up, and brutalized blacks. To remember the spewings of hate from people like George Wallace. To remember when "separate but equal" was the law although "equal" meant nothing. To remember those pretty little children, being walked to school, their eyes shining with fear, their steps far more steady than anyone could imagine a child's being in that situation.

And this minister was saying that Obama's election gave him "cautious optimism" that things will now finally change the way white people think about black people in this country.

I completely understood.

And I wondered if it will also change the way black people perceive white people in this country, which isn't something that's being discussed as often.

I think it will. I think that finally, and at last, African Americans may have cautious reason to believe that all white people do not hate all black people for their skin color. That the powers that be did not somehow prevent a man of color making his way to the highest office in the land and one of the most powerful in the world.

This election has, I hope, given us an entirely new filter to view each other through. One that said not only "Yes we can," but also, "Yes YOU can," which may sound racist and may sound patronizing but dammit, it's true. NO- of course one race of people should never have had the ability and power and will to stop another race of people from doing ANYTHING because of the color of their skin but in this country, it's been the sickening norm and if you doubt that, you have not been paying attention.

The election of Barack Obama has not put an end to racism. Anyone who believes that is a pipe-dreaming fool. But we've put in place a powerful filter in the minds of us all.

Someone stole my Obama sign again this morning. I'm not sure why I've still had it up, almost a week after the election. Perhaps to bask in the glory of finally voting for a candidate who won. Perhaps to show my pride in him, in our country for doing the right thing, the unbelievable thing, the thing I never thought would happen.

But someone was pissed, I guess, and took that sign and I'm pissed because I wanted to save it for posterity.

But the election wasn't stolen. And that's what's important.

And the new filter in all our minds will be there forever and we will all of us, of all different races, see each other in new ways.

And maybe I can start feeling a little less guilty. Maybe, if another older African American gentleman calls me "Ma'am," I can say, "Thank you for that term of respect, but I am younger than you and I have not earned it."

Who knows?

I am cautiously optimistic and I am thrilled beyond belief.

And I have to tell you that this post was very difficult to write. I am trying to be honest and I am trying to say things that are hard, despite the filters I have in my own brain and I feel close to tears, having said them.

Change is hard and it can bring up deep emotions, especially changes having to do with such a long, long history of such profound hate and ignorance and guilt and power and enslavement and inequality and the deaths of countless people, both black and white, who fought to end these things.

One more story:
I was working at McDonald's in Winter Haven, Florida back in the seventies and a man I served left a card that said, "You have just been patronized by the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan."
I read those words and felt shot through with electricity, as if I had been touched by something deadly.

And I had. I had been touched by hate, which is the deadliest thing there is.

I am cautiously optimistic that there is less hate now than there was in the early seventies. I am cautiously optimistic that we are growing up. But I am sure that we are nowhere near done with the process we're going through to get to that place.

But at least we're on the path.

At least.

At last.

Cleaning The Office, Facing A Hard Fact, Trying To Go On Bravely

This weekend has been so good, so magical, so much fun and part of that is the weather and how glorious it really is.
You just want to let the light of it into the house and into your soul and in that spirit, I came out here into my office to dust and spray around the Fabuloso and sweep and in doing so, I am reminded of what a truly wonderful room this is and how lucky I am to call it mine. It used to be the old kitchen of my house, back when cooking was too hot and too dangerous to be done inside the house proper.
And I feel ready to start doing some serious writing now. Getting down to it. Putting my ass in the chair and taking the phone off the hook and letting the mildew and dust and chaos do what mildew and dust and chaos are wont to do, which is to increase and never let you catch up to them in any case.
And writing.
And just as I made this decision, the battery on my laptop, which I have known was failing for some time now, has decided to completely give it up, with not even a death rattle to announce its intention.
Which means I must, must, MUST take the baby in for exploratory surgery and possibly intensive rehab so, dammit, just when I decide it's time to get serious, life takes its own twist.
I'm trying to be light-hearted about this and unattached, but the deep down truth of the matter is that my MacBook is my crack pipe and there's no other way to put it.
But sometimes your crack pipe drops and shatters and you have to put it away for awhile and so I shall.
I can still use the MacBook when it's plugged in, which isn't really much of a problem, but while I'm still on Apple Care (one more month) I need to get this fixed.
Perhaps I can use my husband's (ugh) PC to blog on, at least. We shall see. I know nothing about PC's except that every time I try to use one I end up saying a prayer of thanks that I own a MacBook.
So.
Meanwhile, I'm about to go Monticello to play again and yes, I do have other things in my life.
And yes, they make paper and pens, and yes, I will make use of them.
On we go and on we go and I hope it's as beautiful where you are as it is here today, on a Sunday in November in this new place we call The United States of America.

Tasty Dates

Mr. Moon got home early last night and we took a drive in the Cutlass with the top down. Since the time change, it gets dark so very early but we figured we had an hour at least.
We drove down towards a place we know on Lake Miccosukee but took a road we'd never been on before and after realizing our mistake, we decided to just head on down it anyway, see where it ended up.

Where it ended up was right on the lake, but in a different place. There's a county boat ramp there and a little dock. It was like being in another country, this place. There wasn't another human in sight and it was so still and quiet that we found ourselves talking in whispers.

The water was quite literally as smooth as glass and there was no breeze to ruffle the cypress needles. A squirrel was feasting on the cypress nuts and dropping the husks into the water and that was the loudest sound being made. There were some bird cries, what sounded like a blackbird with his melodious trill and a coot, making his loon-like call. But beside that, it was perfect stillness, perfect quiet.

We sat for awhile, just taking it in, feeling like the two luckiest people on earth to be there at that moment.

When we walked back to where the car was parked, Mr. Moon noticed a moccasin, eating something for his dinner. We watched from about two feet away while the snake swallowed what might have been a skink, his fangs appearing whenever he pulled another few centimeters of lizard into this body. Our presence must have annoyed him because he slithered off into the grass to finish his meal, the poor creature's head still poking out of his mouth.

We drove back home with the setting sun painting the clouds pink down roads with some of the biggest oak trees I've ever seen and it felt like the whole world had been dipped in magic, and us too.

I'd made a batch of venison chili the night before and I had bread rising and I baked that and made some red cabbage with dried cherries and brown sugar and vinegar and we had a good supper and cleaned up and went to bed.

We've had a lot of Friday night dates, Mr. Moon and I, but I think that one put all the rest to shame. It turned out to be something we'd never expected, which is what the best things usually are, and it all happened because we drove down the "wrong" road.

And there you go- we're so often attached to being right, to making the decisions and turns and twists that we're familiar with and know the outcome of that we completely miss what might be the best path, the most magical.

Tonight we'll be going on another kind of date down to the Legion Hall to hear Maxine and Big Lou (otherwise known as Lon and Lis Williamson) and their band, VTW.

I'm feeling a bit apprehensive because this will be the first time I've done something like this since the dark days of insanity began to take over my life. The last time I put on my silver and went out to where music was being played was, in fact, the Legion Hall and Lon and Lis were playing that night, too. It was a lot of fun and I'm sure tonight will be too, but it's a hurdle for me to cross, to go out into the night time and be in a place with lots of people.

But I want to go and I will.

And if you live around here and don't have plans for tonight, come on out and join us. Sure to be some tasty music and Lon and Lis always attract the best people.

Is it a date?

Light At Last

It's been two darn good weeks for me and I'm just feeling so damn grateful today.

Three days ago (only three?) we elected a new president and I'm still trying to integrate that one in my mind and believe you me- NO PUN intended. "Integrate" is a word that we used back in the old hippie days to represent the sort of processing that change in the brain requires.

I'm so glad I got to be a hippie.

I was talking to my yoga teacher this morning and I told her that two things really profoundly affected the way I see the world. Of course there are far more than two, but these are really important.

One was being lucky enough to travel to Europe when I was seventeen. I turned eighteen in Paris, France. I was able there to see that the way we do things here in the USA, which I had always been told was the greatest country in the world, was not necessarily the only way and besides that, seeing Michelangelo's David sort of gave me the insight that maybe the US hadn't quite come up to the level of culture and achievement that other countries had.

Among other things, including the way their soup tasted.

The other influence on my life which opened my mind to a completely different way of thinking was taking hallucinogenic drugs.

Yeah. I did it. More than once. And I'm mighty grateful I did.

My yoga teacher was curious about that one. She's never done any such a thing but just recently had to detox from the "medications" her doctors had her on for pain and it was a difficult process, to say the least. She asked me how I'd "gotten" off the hallucinogens.

I explained to her that for me, at least, hallucinogens are the opposite of addictive. It's sort of like childbirth, only without the physical pain. Not something you need to do all the time. I did it until I figured out that I'd learned all I needed to learn from that particular teacher and then I quit.

And I think that's true. They weren't a recreational experience for me, but an opening of the mind.

Mindbirth?

Soulbirth?

Not unlike seeing The David or a giant Sequoia or holding your just-born baby for the first time and realizing that there is far more going on in this world (and perhaps others) than my little mind had ever possibly perceived.

There are keys to the doors of perception, as old Aldous Huxley pointed out and I've been blessed to hold a few of them in my hand.

But you know what they say- Before enlightenment, chop wood, haul water. After enlightenment, chop wood, haul water.

Not saying I'm enlightened. Oh hell, no. But I've had my moments where I believe I was pretty darn close.

Moments when I realized viscerally to the tiniest particles of my bones and blood that yes, we are all one. Not that we are just a part of it all but that we ARE it all. Along with the trees and the rocks and the birds, this oak table I'm writing on, and that redneck down the road.

And that the divisions we see are merely illusions.

But like waking from a dream that we desperately want to hold on to, these sudden beams of enlightenment, whether chemically induced or not, are difficult to keep with us in the form of their original full power and harder still to explain.
I think perhaps there are people who can do this, who are even born knowing these things. The Dalai Lama? That homeless guy who walks down the road with his eyes closed, chanting and blissed out? Keith Richards?

Haha.

Just making sure you're paying attention.

But for the rest of us, life is a constant road of knowing and not-knowing, of seeing and not-seeing, of remembering and forgetting, of being reminded and remembering again.

At least for me.

And in the last few weeks, my soul has been at rest enough to take in so much goodness and to remember a few of the things I've learned. To be at peace enough to be grateful, down to that place where I know what's important and what's not and to feel blessed beyond measure.

My family and the love we share is something I never thought I'd have. Not like this. Not like it's turned out to be. It's blown all my perceptions of what a family can be.

My friends and the support and humor they've offered me is something I'll never be able to express my gratitude for appropriately.

The people I get to play with at the Opera House give blessings to me that they have no idea they are offering.

My home.

This country that I now have more love for than I ever knew I could have.

The simple joys I experience while metaphorically chopping wood and hauling water, whether it's digging in the dirt or sweeping the floors of this house I love or baking a loaf of bread.

Sleep and it's soft curtain of darkness which is the sort of darkness which is light-shot.

The very basic gratefulness of living in a world filled with the sounds of birds and the wind moving through the trees and taking tongue in the windchimes.

The water that bathes our planet.

The ability to write down and share what I feel and dream about and am grateful for.

A body which is aging but which is still strong and which has served me so well, especially when it came to creating life and delivering it and nurturing it.

The experiences I've been blessed to have, both the ones that seemed ecstatic and the ones that seemed too hard to bear, because they've made me who I am.

My husband, whom as we grow older together, I cherish and adore more each day.

These things and so much more I am blessed with.

I was blessed with them a few months ago, too, when I was crazy, but I couldn't register them, not in any constructive or real way. The place I was in was so dark that I couldn't see them, even though I knew they were all around me. And so, in some ways, I am feeling most blessed to be at this more peaceful, sane place where I can feel them, where I can hold them and see them and study them and know them.

I find myself tearing up a lot recently. Joyful tears. Not just at the big, huge things like seeing Obama get elected and seeing the faces of his wife and children. But at the smaller things, too, the more personal. Trying to tell a friend how much she means to me. Attempting to do the same with my husband, his arms around me. Telling a child of mine how proud I am of the person he or she has become.

Pure, simple, open-hearted gratefulness fills my heart and my eyes leak that which over-fills.

And I have no elegant words of ending today. This is just what it is. I feel enlightened in the sense that my being is filled with light and in the sense that my soul feels light, as if a huge weight has been removed from it and I can breathe again, smile again, feel all my blessings again, remember the lessons I've learned again and honor them all again.

Amen. Again. And again, and again, and again.

Thanks Procter And Gamble!

I sort of feel like comedians after 9/11. When is it permissible to discuss anything not related to the recent earth-shaking event?

Well, for me that would be one day.

I was walking and listening to NPR on the antique Walkman this morning when I heard about a study that was recently done in Australia and which is being written up in the New England Journal of Medicine on 814 post-menopausal women which involved the use of a testosterone patch to see if it increased the women's libidos.

Guess what?
It did.

Women who received the testosterone patch reported having twice as many satisfying sexual encounters a month than before they were on it, while women on the placebo patch reported having 0.7 more satisfying sexual experiences than before.

AND...when I say "twice as many" what that means in this particular study was that they had TWO more satisfying sexual encounters a month. And the placebo patch women were having almost (don't you love statistics?) ONE more sexual satisfying sexual encounter a month.

Oh boy. Makes me want to run out and get me some patches.

And oh yeah, there was some unwanted hair growth and four of the women on the real patch developed breast cancer while none of the placebo group did, but hey! TWO MORE SATISFYING SEXUAL ENCOUNTERS A MONTH! TOTALLY WORTH IT!

Why don't they do a study which tries to determine if a dinner out and a foot rub doesn't get similar or better results?

No unwanted hair growth, no increased breast cancer, and I have a strong feeling the results would be at least as good as putting male hormones in female bodies.

Good grief!

Sorry. I'm Peeing In The Punchbowl.

Although I am feeling huge and joyful elation over yesterday's election, I just have to take a few moments to say something about the fact that possibly a tenth of our population was told yesterday that, like African-Americans a few generations ago, they do not have the same civil rights as the rest of "us."

And as excited and proud as I am about the fact that Americans got off their asses yesterday and managed to vote for the best candidate who also happened to be of African-decent, I am as equally pissed and sorrowful that we decided to alter the constitutions of several states to prevent many of our citizens from enjoying the same rights as other citizens. What were people thinking when they voted to put it into the constitution of their states that marriage should be defined as being only between a man and a woman? If they'd tried to define marriage as a union between two people of the same race, it would have been an outrage! That would never have made it to the ballots. But defining it as a union between a man and a woman?

Oh sure.

Give me a break.

I find the whole situation vile.

And rather unbelievable.

I thought things in this area were changing. At least in California, for god's sake.

But I suppose when a group like the Mormons (who let's face it- mostly live in Utah) throw their energy and 20 million dollars into a fight, they can get some stuff done.

Some vile stuff.

I mean- the Mormons didn't give up polygamy (officially, anyway) until 1890 when the law of the land not only forbid the practice in no uncertain terms but began to actually prosecute it. And even then, it wasn't a "revelation" but was described as an "official declaration" and one would think that if anyone was interested in protected the rights of adults to marry as they see fit, it would be the Mormons but no. Guess not.

Maybe they're just all pissed off and frustrated because they can't follow their God-given right to the one-man-many-women marriages that God had seen fit to allow them.

I don't know.

Here's what I do know:

Jesus did not talk about homosexuals. He DID talk a lot about loving your neighbor and not judging others and feeding the hungry and giving the shirt off your back to someone who needed it and taking care of the children.

So why don't these tax-exempt churches put their might and money behind changing constitutions to make these things the law- the things that Jesus DID actually discuss and advise his followers to do?

Huh?

Why that would be like, uh, welfare. Or socialism. Or...OH NO! Communism!

I had a discussion with a woman I know on this subject today. She was raised in the pope's church to believe that homosexuality was a sin, but she's now tolerant enough to believe that perhaps it's more of an aberration. But when I asked her why she thinks that homosexual couples should be barred from legal marriage, she hemmed and hawed and said something about the fact that if anyone can get married, then her "legitimate" marriage might mean less. When I pushed her as to how that would work, she didn't really have an answer.

She thought she'd come up with a good argument when she said that if some people were born with the proclivity of being attracted to children, then should we just allow THAT too?
I asked her why she'd even bring that into a conversation about homosexuality but of course the answer is clear- to her homosexuality is still a sin and a perversion.

I didn't point that out but I said, "The difference there is that a child is not a consenting adult."

"Oh yeah," she said.

She's trying to stretch her mind around it all but it's a slow process. I believe though, that by the time our conversation was over, she was farther along in the process than she was before it started.

I'm just angry.

As I've said before, over and over, for me it's all about love and consenting adults. Not consenting adult and child. Not consenting adult and goat.

Just plain old consenting adults.

You want to marry two men? Do they want to marry you? Fine by me if you're all over eighteen.

You want to marry forty-eight women? Do they want to marry you? Go for it if you're old enough to go to war.

None of that is going to affect my marriage.

Did you know the divorce rate for Christians is higher than that of agnostics and atheists?
So perhaps if we want to "preserve the family" and "protect marriage" we should outlaw conservative Christianity.

Just saying.

And I could say so much more on this subject than anyone in the world would want to read but I'll just say it all boils down to this:

Yesterday we not only denied the rights of citizens to marry based on the gender of the people whom they want to marry, we, in some cases, took those rights away.

This fight is not over. And I hope that someday we'll look back on the whole thing with an attitude of what the fuck was THAT all about? the same way we can now look back on the buying and selling of human beings.

Because both of these issues are based on the belief that some segment of humanity does not deserve the rights that others receive. No matter what your religious or moral beliefs, you cannot deny that fact.

Slavery ain't right (even though the Old Testament said it was, and oh yeah, it also said polygamy was okay too) and neither is denying the rights of people in love to be afforded the legal rights and protections of marriage because they're gay.

And that's one of the things I was talking about yesterday when I said we have work to do.

Let's get started.

Our First Family

Can you imagine those old, creaky ghosts in the White House and the way their ectoplasmic juices are going to explode with surprise and then delight when these girls are giggling their way through their new home?
I can imagine the ghost of some old white-wigged president playing hide-n-seek with Sasha. I can imagine the ghost of his wife, reaching out to pat those children, sighing with frustration that she can't hold them in her spectral arms. I can imagine Malia growing up, those long legs getting longer and longer, that beautiful face becoming a woman's face.
I can see Michele, welcoming foreign dignitaries with that grace she holds in every atom of her body.
I can see lots of kisses in the White House for four (eight?!) years. Real kisses.
I can see Barack, with his thoughtful and intelligent mind, considering those babies, that wife, in every decision he makes.

John Lennon said that here in the US we go out every four years and elect a new daddy.

I like our new daddy. I think we done real good.

Bless our hearts. At long last, bless our American hearts.

I Have No Words Right Now

Except this- I am so proud of my country.

Music To Listen To While We Waited

Waking Up And Rolling Up Our Sleeves For Change

Okay. This is what I woke up thinking about this morning, this historical morning where Americans go to the poll to choose a new president:

I'm thinking that matter what you believe, or who you believe in, the president we are about to elect is only one man. He can't, no matter how smart he is or how capable or how hardworking, do the job of bringing our country into the light all by himself and that in a way, as much as he's leader, he's a symbol. He's a symbol of the wishes and desires and hopes and fears and prejudices and beliefs of the American electorate.

And that's what I've been so depressed and upset about for the last two elections. Although Bush didn't exactly WIN in 2000 (and there are doubts about 2004, as well), he came close enough so that it was quite apparent that there were enough voting citizens of the USA who thought he, along with his band of criminals, was the man to lead us. To symbolize us.

And that had me completely fucked in the head because none of the people I know are that stupid, that in love with the way of war and death and torture and the sort of closed-off thought that some sorts of religion (the kind our president supposedly believes in) promulgate which says that anything can be done, anything at all no matter how immoral or heinous, if you believe it's what your god wants.

But obviously, I haven't exactly had my finger on the pulse because Bush got elected twice. Somehow. He managed.

And it seriously brought me to my knees to have to face the fact that our country is made up of people who would vote for him, or at least half of them. Or close enough.

But now it appears (and please, let the polls be straight and true) that we have changed. And when I say "we" I mean Americans. We have changed enough that we can elect a president who is, as I have said before, skinny with big ears and a huge smile, who has a COLOR, who was raised by a single mother and grandparents, who managed to get the best education our country can offer without the benefit of family money or family name and who, in fact, has a really, really funny name.

Barack Hussein Obama.

I don't think Obama is god. I don't think that even with a Democratic congress he's going to be able to straighten out the mess we're in right now. He can't do it.

BUT, we can. We. The American people. From the CEO's and the guys on Wall Street to the farmers in Nebraska to the single mothers trying to raise their babies the best they can, to the small business owners, to the teachers, to the nurses, to the non-profit workers, to the people in government, we're all going to have to make changes in the way we live, spend, save, work and think. We're going to have to try and take care of our own problems and maybe reach out to help a neighbor with hers. We're going to have to put aside prejudices whether they're about labels like "socialized medicine" or "urban problems."

We're going to have to figure out what's important. We're going to have to figure out how to save our planet. We're going to have to learn that sacrifice doesn't mean going to the mall and buying shit we don't need with money we don't have. We're going to have to quit believing that if you don't follow a president's insane need to go fight a war you're not patriotic.

We're going to have to redefine what patriotic means.

WE are going to have to do all of that and more.

And if today the American voters go to the polls and elect this completely (by all previous standards) unelectable man as our president, I think we're saying we're ready to try.

And I'm pretty sure the rest of the world will be watching us and hoping that finally, the United States of America is finally growing up. Finally getting out of our thoughtless, bullying, hormone-riddled, egotistical teenaged years and are ready to join the world as a grown-up citizen, a responsible and thoughtful member of the table of elders, ready to deal with the real problems besetting not only us, our country, but the problems of the world.

Because we're all in this together. There is no other way.

Until the people stand up and say, "No more stupid wars, no more pretending global warming isn't happening, no more standing by while women and children are being raped and killed, no more turning a blind eye to the starving and sick, no more bullying and invading and torturing," nothing's going to change.

And unless there is change, there is no hope. I'm sorry. That's the way I see it.

And if we, as Americans, are willing to go and vote for this guy, this skinny, half African guy who is smart and who doesn't offer miracles that no mortal man or woman could ever pull off, who offers nothing but everything he, as a person, can give, then maybe we can do it.

We, you and me, can quit spending money on wars that serve no purpose, quit spending our resources on energy and health solutions that don't work, quit spending our time and money on trying to deny citizens their basic civil rights because of the gender of the people they're attracted to, quit calling fertilized eggs "humans" and take care of the humans already born.

We can start working together.

And this is what I think- that if we do elect Barack Obama today, it shows that we have already begun changing.

And if that happens, I'm going to be so proud. The dream of what this country could be will have begun to be fulfilled. Finally. At last.

Hopefully, by the end of the day we'll know.

Hell. If Obama gets elected I might go out and buy an American flag. I might fly it from my house. And I have never, ever had that urge before.
But if Obama gets elected, I might finally feel, after 54 years, that this is truly a country I am proud to have been born in.

And that's what I woke up thinking today.

I wonder what I'll wake up thinking tomorrow.
I hope it's that finally we're ready to roll up our sleeves and get to work and that finally, we have a leader to guide us. Not to save us, but to guide us. To symbolize the hope we have that we can, with a lot of work, and a lot of thought, make our country a better place, and yes, the entire world too.

I hope we all wake up tomorrow knowing that we're a nation made up of the kind of people who can make decisions based on the hope we have, rather than the fear we've been led to believe is the place we should act from.

And I hope we all wake up tomorrow rested and ready to go into a new day because folks, we've got work to do. A lot of work to do.

But we can do it. We're changing.

I really think we are.

Desperate BASTARDS! (Thanks, Brother W. B.)

Okay. Some sleezoid Republican came through Lloyd around five a.m. and stole all the Obama yard signs in the neighborhood.

Excuse me?

What kind of a cowardly asshole thinks this is the way a democracy is run?

My across-the-street neighbor is in town right now, getting more Obama signs for our little tiny corner of the world which is a decidedly Democratic corner of the world.

And we're all calling the sheriff. Which is patently ridiculous but still....

BASTARDS!!!!!

The Boss Still Wears Levi's And The Obamas Are Still Smiling

Weekend Round-Up

We had a record number of Trick-or-Treaters last night.
Zero.
Nada.
Zip.
None.

Not one adorable child stopped in for candy, even though we put the pumpkin out on the fence and had the porch light on and at one point, Mr. Moon even went out by the gate and waved at passing cars and yelled, "We have candy!"

It was so sad. I never even got into my flannel nightgown. I had my martinis, made a delicious dinner, Mr. Moon and I ate the dinner, we watched a bit of Antiques Roadshow, cleaned up from dinner, I ate two Reeses cups and went to bed.

I'm so boring.

But this is exciting (to me):
If you go back to my post on the Vermont Country Store catalog and read the comments, you'll see that someone named Lyman Orton, who claims to be the proprietor of The Vermont Country Store (and with a name like Lyman Orton, I tend to believe him. Her?) left not only a comment but also a small thing he (she?) wrote about hanging clothes on the line, a subject quite dear to my heart.

You just never know who's going to read this stuff.

My friend and fellow Foley artist, Kathleen, and I are having so much fun doing the sound effects for the radio show the Monticello Opera House is about to present that we had to meet with the director this afternoon because really, we're having too much fun and not actually getting our shit together.

The director, being an extremely nice person, did not say that, but I know that's the truth. During our rehearsal on Thursday night when I tried to make the sound of a fighter plane using a fan and a piece of paper but it turned out to sound far more like a fart, I laughed so hard I thought I wouldn't be able to stop. Throw in all the whispered asides I make to Kathleen which tend to be slightly wicked and it doesn't really make for a professional job being done but it sure as hell is a fun one.

Actually, I think we've almost got it now except that we're having a very difficult time making the sound of a frog. You'd think that would be easy, right? But it has to be a frog who has carnal intercourse with a turkey so it must be a seductive type of frog croak. A sexy frog croak. While at the same time, being identifiable as a frog. Which makes no sense to me because frogs do not mate with turkeys. We're using one of Mr. Moon's turkey calls for the turkey which is working fine. He tried to get me to use a different, more authentic-sounding and more difficult-to-operate call of his, but I told him that it really didn't matter because the turkey's name was Bernice and she was going to be getting it on with a frog so we're not actually too worried about authenticity. I'm not sure why the director is worried about the frog's authenticity but she seems to be.

Any suggestions?


And today I got back in the garden and replanted some things and it felt good to get my hands in the dirt. Dammit, I WILL have a winter garden or know the reason why. And if you know where I can get beet seedlings, please let me know. I'm ready to skip the seeds and go straight to the plants. It's November, for God's sake.

Three more days until the election and that of course, is the really big news. I'm holding my breath, I'm crossing my fingers, I'm lighting candles and sending positive energy out into the world.

And lastly, I have to say that the past week has been the best one for me that I can remember having in a very, very long time. I don't know whether it was the trip to Vero or the extra walking or the radio play or WHAT, but whatever it is, it's working and my spirits are so much better and my heart is so much lighter and I feel healthy and good.

For which I am eternally grateful.

And I'm eternally grateful for this outlet, this blogification I enjoy so much and especially for the fact that darn it, people read it. Tens and tens of people. Really, really nice people. And I'd like to say that if you read this and have never commented but think maybe you'd like to, please do! As I've said before, each and every comment is like a paycheck (only without anyone having to give me actual money) and makes me feel richer than you can possibly know.

Oh! And one more thing- isn't tonight the night we set our clocks back? Let me check.

Yes! Yes it is! We get an extra hour of sleep! Although I think this means it'll be getting dark earlier.
Well, I'll deal with that as it happens.

And now it's almost time to listen to the soothing voice of Garrison Keillor.
Could life GET any better?

I think not. Not for me, anyway. Unless they offered me a job writing for the Vermont Country Store Catalog and gave me free stuff. But you can't have everything, can you? And that's all right. I got all the stuff I need.

I hope you do too.

Love....Ms. Moon