Waxing and Waning

With another very welcomed full moon coming up on Friday, my loving Luna has been running through my mind all week. Some people feel a bit off when the moon is so saturated with this sort of bright energy but I tend to tap into our connection. I feel this moon is pregnant with the universal knowledge of love and harvest and the concept of enjoying all you've worked hard for. Appreciation. Reaping what you sow.
June is the month of the Strawberry full moon according to the Algonquin tribes who have since taken responsibility for the naming of our lunar orbiting. This month is recognized for these tribes finally being able to pluck all the ripe strawberries from their swollen vines and enjoy the cool fruits under the heat of the sun. Sort of a humble pat on the back, a mid-way treat, a cigarette break, a pause, a beat in your tempo, a deep breath, a moment to close your eyes, lean your head back, wipe the sweat and just stand there for a while.

So, Karma. In a nutshell.

If you plant, if you work, if you water, if you gather... You'll receive the sweet taste of a fruity victory. If you don't, well...

What goes around comes around.
Repercussions are always there to remind you of the things you did or didn't do. Don't ever be fooled into thinking there isn't a cosmic cause and effect counterbalance. There is. It's a boomerang coming back at you with force 3 times harder than that of your throw, or if you're lucky, it's a nectarous little basket filled with the plump juicy berries you've been sheltering, feeding and cultivating to make your relaxation all the more fulfilling.

You are the captain of your own ship, as they say. Or farmer of your own field I suppose in this analogy.

So anyway, last month we planted our own row of strawberries in the garden. When we got them on sale from the local nursery they were weak, limp, and looked as though they were on their way to Hospice.

Regardless of their unfortunate demeanor, (looking like a wimpy pile of Lindsey Lohans who were damaged with daddy issues) we planted them anyway and in the warmth of the sun with fresh water to drink and Billy Joel serenading "Downeaster Alexa" on his piano from around the corner's iPod doc, our strawberries slowly began to perk up. 

Here we are a month later, and although our greenery hasn't started baring fruit yet, they have doubled in size and happiness. (As have our onions, squash, carrots, bell peppers, eggplant and of course beets) Quite a difference from the photo above taken from the same angle. Even the second raised bed which started as tiny seedlings are popping their heads up to take notice of the nice weather we've been having.

The moral of this story? Patience, love, and hard work.

“Should you fail to pilot your own ship, 

don't be surprised at what inappropriate port you find yourself docked.” 

-Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume

Captain Krista's Counter Culture

Have you ever seen those clunker cars where the hood or passenger side door is a different color than the rest of the car's body? 
We had the culinary equivalent. 
We had a clunker kitchen. 

The walls were that unfortunate color of hammered down concrete which was bad enough, but in addition the counter tops were the color of Yoda. 

Not like a bright, young and energetic Yoda. More like a hungover Yoda who had woken up after just 2 1/2 hours of sleep to find he had rolled over a dirty diaper and was now snuggled up to a big girl with breath smelling of kitty litter.  

For further reference, I'll include a photograph.

On the opposite wall there was a lovely laminate counter top sprinkled with multiple shades of tan. It was a beautiful mix of armadillo, peanut shells, pine cone, Indian tee-pee and Tara Reid.  I couldn't understand why the previous owners would have replaced one and not the other. But for whatever reason, they didn't. 

When we bought the house, replacing the mismatched counter tops was on code red urgency. So much so that in one of our counteroffers to purchasing this quaint little palace, we put in writing that the sellers must disclose to us the place where these new counters were acquired so that we could get the avocado ones out of here as soon as humanly possible. 

Turns out; Home Depot. 

Easy enough. 

Now to tend to these horrific walls. 

Again.

I was wanting a creamy pastel sort of pale teal color for the paint but none of the color swatches were really what I was going for.  Our living room lamps were however that particular shade so I marched one of them into Home Depot and they were able to color match. Technology is amazing. 

I know these pictures aren't the best given that they were taken on a cell phone (latest and greatest iPhone or not, an actual camera always does more justice), but my point isn't really the colors as much as the change. Just notice the very drastic shift from the dark side of the moon to the silver lining. My entire mood was lifted like wallets in the streets of Paris with each brush stroke.

Ok, so putting a stop to the discrepancy of the counter tops was a process. 

The lady at our local Home Depot was a horrible person with a disastrous personality and to say we didn't hit it off very well would have been an enormous understatement. 

Now, I know nothing about home renovation.

I make this no secret.

I've never owned a home, I've never replaced counter tops, I don't even know when the last time I stepped foot in a home improvement store would have been. 

However, I'm not an idiot.

I was trying to get through the ordering process just as unscathed as this road-kill of a customer service representative. Turns out, some people have a rough time playing well with others so I ended up telling her to have a nice afternoon (that isn't what I told her) and I went to the other side of town and visited with Fort Collins' other Home Depot. 

This new woman was extraordinary. She explained all the steps, how everything would go down and in what order. We matched the laminate, we chose the back splash wall, we decided on the waterfall trim and that was all there was to it. A week after we had a guy from the tile and stone company come to our house to measure, it took 2 1/2 weeks for fabrication, and a week after that it was installed. 

Easy Peasy.

We skipped paying the extra cash and took our old tops and sink off ourselves. By ourselves I mean Jason and our friend Grant and absolutely nothing involving myself personally unless you count snapping pictures. 

The newbies were installed the following day in under an hour. 

This next picture is the one that absolutely kills me. I was just flipping though the pictures from a post a few weeks back called 50 Shades of Pewter Mug and standing from the same point of view the place is so dark! I just can't even believe how much brighter the whole house looks with just a few coats of lighter paint on the walls. If I have any advice for anyone looking to spruce their place up on a budget, just grab of couple of rollers and a head over to your nearest home improvement store (NOT the Home Depot on the corner of Lemay and Mulberry in Fort Collins, Colorado). It's the biggest bang for your buck for sure.  

With order restored in the kitchen area and a brightness breathing life back into our little cave, I feel much more at ease with posting some summer recipes in the near future. 

However, for now I'm going to do nothing but sit. It's been 2 months of remodeling and I need a bit of a break. I've been sick all week with a hellacious head cold and there is an Adirondack chair, a brand new Tom Robbins book, and a glass of iced tea in the back yard screaming my name. 

Have a great weekend!

Tommy Rotten: The Man Who Changed My Moon

You guys.

I waited 4 hours at the Tattered Cover Bookstore tonight to meet the most influential literary icon of my life.

As the clock drew closer to that 7 PM hour and I had been holding my espresso saturated self and my coveted 3rd row center aisle seat, I had to just get up and pee. It was like 6:53 PM and I figured if I ran back super fast and left my books on my chair to mark my territory, I could safely make it back in time for Tom Robbins to come strolling down the walkway and into my obsessive little world.

So I'm hauling ass around the corner doing the middle aged lady speed walk and I run right into the guy.

Like, I'm face to face.
With Tom Robbins.

The Universe purposely pushed on my bladder right at that exact moment so that it could align our paths. Tom Robbins is standing directly in front of me and I have this amazing opportunity to let him know how much he's changed my views about everything in the goddamn world and how much I love him and all I can squeak out is "Oh my god, you almost gave me a heart attack!"

Sunglasses. Of course. He was wearing shades, a striped jacket, neon shoes and a half smile. Yeah, we shared a smile. It was bliss. Not exactly how I was hoping our first meeting would go, but bliss nonetheless.

I'm sure he thought so as well.

He didn't return any actual words, but I'm almost 100% positive he fell in love a little bit.

So anyway, he read a few chapters from his new book Tibetan Peach Pie and I waited in line afterwards admiring his comic book socks and tried to ignore all the rest of the groupies.  It was one of the most magical nights of my life. He eventually signed my tore up copy of Still Life With Woodpecker and I did get to express to him how much he changed my life.

 (I'm even almost positive he heard me)

I'm telling you, it was a harmonic, star struck, promenade of a dream evening. Total perfection.

Now, with this new experience under my belt, I have taken this from it:

(I've said it before and I'll say it again)
When I can't see the moon I feel a bit lost. An invisible moon is an invisible me, I feel. 

When things around me are chaotic and temporal, it's calming to me to be able to look up and see my constant.
I feel connected.

The Moon is my crush. I wait all day for its visit. But he takes forever to get ready for a date. Like the world revolves around him or something. 

Right now, Mr Moon is coming back from invisibility and I feel that even a sliver is reassuring. 

New moons are a sort of blank page. It's a chance to think of exactly what it is I want to be drawing into my life. Preparation for the next cycle. 

It's a powerful opportunity to trust in the darkness no matter how uncomfortable and uncertain. It is a great reminder to have faith.

Because after all, according to the man himself:

“There are essential and inessential insanities. The later are solar in character, the former are linked to the moon.” 

Contents Under Pressure

Here's the thing about pressure: it will either make you thrive or implode. Either way you'll get a definite ending.

We've bought a house and a car within 1 week of each other. The house and all the stress that comes along with closing the deal is enough to drive someone a little bonkers anyway, but I've also thrown in a new stick shift which I have no idea how to drive and I've spent the last week screaming at my clutch and honking my horn at myself.

That same week, my employers sold our company and now we're gearing up for a remodel and will be shut down for 3 weeks. My daughter is sick with bronchitis, my dog is going blind, my husband needs a hair cut, and I could use a cocktail.

In addition, California is now only a rock's skip away! In two short weeks, Kalynn and I will be flying over our little world of beautiful hectnicity (hecticness? Are these words?) to escape for a week of sunshine and total lack of responsibility. The week of our return, we'll be closing on our new house and starting our own little version of the American dream, followed by our 3rd marriage anniversary, Jason's 35th birthday, an amazing Mother's Day weekend with my mom complete with a show by one of my very favorite bands The Dandy Warhols, and then straight to a book signing by soul mate of an author Tom Robbins at a bookstore which was a visiting place on my Colorado Bucket List from a few months back.

I mean, Jesus Christ.

I need to redirect some of this pressure.
My dear Luna has filled up and is deflating once again drawing a close to the 3rd quarter and moving along into the 4th.
I often take my cue from the Moon.
In football, as I've learned working in a sports bar the last year and a half, the 4th quarter isn't much of a time for slacking. The 4th quarter is a time to gather your shit and make sure you leave no room for things to creep up behind you. It's an important time to be alert and on your A game.

Which is why it makes no since that tonight I'm planning on grabbing a 6 pack of good beer and drowning in my couch watching the new Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon.

So in conclusion, I have no cute craft or recipe or photo shoot or advice. I just wanted to throw a tiny little update out here to explain why I've been on a brief Rocky Mountain Hiatus.
(Did you see what I did there?)

Love to all,
-Krista

The Lesson Of The Beet

Hold on to your divine blush, your innate rosy magic, or end up brown.

Once you're brown, you'll find that you're blue. As blue as indigo. And you know what that means:

     Indigo.

     Indigoing.

     Indigone. 

Strawberry Supermoon 2013

I know I've kind of been a little preoccupied and busy and honestly just over blogging lately. I've been writing every single day, sometimes even twice a day, for years. Some of it was published on my past blog MGEN, some of it for a couple of small magazines in New York, some of it on RESiNMAG.com, some of it for work, some of it for my degree and some of it just for personal cathartic decompression.

I think all the excitement of a new forum kicked me into overload when I started The Brighter Writer and after an entire year of posting nonstop, day after day, it just burned me out.

It turns out one of my posts is going to be featured in next month's goodhousekeeping.com (!!!!) and that was really just the kick in the ass that I needed to get myself back in gear.

So even though I don't have any crafts or recipes or whatever this week, the point of this blog was just to come as you are and write.

And so that's what I'll do.

Tonight's supermoon has been on my mind all week long. My love for the moon is evenly spread through its whole cycle and admitting how much I love it when it's full is sort of like a mother admitting she likes one child better than any other. But the truth is, I do. Maybe because I get to see Lady Moon as her whole self and not just a partial shading. Maybe because it makes me and everyone else do strange things. I'm not sure.

But there is another one tonight.
A big one.
The largest of 2013.
It will be 16,176 miles closer to us than on any other usual full moon.
It will be 30% visibly brighter to us than on any other usual full moon.
It will be magnificent.

Think of the moon as a woman in her mid-30's, who although is beautiful in everyday life, she only gets really dolled up and goes out to party once a year or so. And when she does, she goes hard. This is her night on the town. You won't see her at the club again until August 2014. So you better man-up and ask her to dance...

Arguments in the media are back and forth about possible increased risk of earthquakes and erupting volcanoes. Reminders that the supermoon of 2011 grounded 5 UK ships are in the back of traveling minds everywhere.  The tides being 18% larger on average throughout the world are worrisome in places of tsunami threat. Everyone seems to be on a heightened security.

All because of this shy lady:

June's full moons are known as The Strawberry Moon here in the United States. It was named by Algonquin tribes who knew by this moon it was time to start gathering up their ripened fruits. Across the pond in Europe, it's known as the Rose Moon.

So anyway, you can find me on my porch tonight, stargazing in a happy enchanted state, drinking strawberry martinis and nibbling fresh fruit. I'll be thinking about love. Do not disturb.

The Purpose of the Moon

by Tom Robbins (1979)

1

          Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear and sent it to Marilyn Monroe.
          Marilyn Monroe was so touched that she gave up everything—her career, her swimming pool, her wiggle, her telephone, her suicide, everything—and moved to the south of France to be with Vincent van Gogh.
          Did they live happily ever after? No, no one ever does. But they pretended to live happily ever after. And since all things become what we pretend they are, fake happiness is as good as the real stuff.

2

          Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear and sent it to Marilyn Monroe. When she unwrapped the package and found the ear, Marilyn Monroe dished up her famous cat-that-swallowed-the-banana smile.
          Marilyn Monroe put the ear in a rosewood box on her dressing table. Every now and again, she would remove the ear from the box, pet it, blow on it, scratch it and giggle. Once, she hooked the ear on a silver chain and wore it to a party. She always intended to write the ear’s original owner a pretty thank-you note, but she never quite got around to it.
          Was Vincent van Gogh a fool?
          Maybe Marilyn Monroe was the fool. After all, Vincent van Gogh made a grand gesture and Marilyn Monroe received it frivolously.

3

          Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear and sent it to Marilyn Monroe. Some weeks later, the package was returned to Vincent van Gogh. It was marked, ADDRESSEE DECEASED.
          Vincent van Gogh checked into the matter and found that it was true. In his research, he learned that Joe DiMaggio had ordered that fresh red roses be placed on Marilyn Monroe’s grave every three days, forever. Not for Joe DiMaggio’s lifetime, mind you, not for the duration of Hollywood, its films and its cemeteries, but forever.
          Vincent van Gogh leaned against the dizzy crown of an epileptic sunflower. Said he, “After the end of the world, Joe DiMaggio is going to have some money coming back.”

4

          Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear and sent it to Marilyn Monroe. Whereupon Marilyn Monroe cut off one of her ears and sent it to Vincent van Gogh.
          Vincent van Gogh cut off his little toe and sent it to Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn Monroe sent one of her little toes in return. Next, Vincent van Gogh cut off an eyelid and posted it. In the return mail, he received an eyelid from Marilyn Monroe. Their friendship was growing warm.
          They exchanged ring fingers, tongues, belly buttons and nipples. One day, Vincent van Gogh cut out his heart and rushed it to Hollywood—but by then Marilyn Monroe had become bored with the whole affair and run off to Tijuana with Warren Beatty.
          Vincent van Gogh was shattered. Yet he should not have been so surprised. That is often the pattern love follows.

5

          Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear and sent it to Marilyn Monroe. Not long afterward, Marilyn Monroe flew to Paris, drove a rented car to the south of France and called on Vincent van Gogh.
          Following proper introduction, Marilyn Monroe produced a package of Hostess Twinkies. Because Hostess Twinkies always travel in pairs; because, like the coyote, the gorilla, the killer whale and the whooping crane, Hostess Twinkies mate for life, there was a Twinkie each for them to share.
          When the snack was done, Marilyn Monroe reached into her sewing basket, drew out a needle and a spool of green thread and proceeded to stitch Vincent van Gogh’s ear right back where it belonged.
          “There,” she said, licking a smear of Twinkie cream from the corner of her mouth. “There, you naughty boy. And the next time you want to clip off a piece of yourself as a token of affection, you might keep in mind the old Jewish custom. It’s less messy, more socially acceptable. Remember, to ear is human, but to foreskin is divine.”

6

          Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear and sent it to Marilyn Monroe.
          The severed ear reminded Marilyn Monroe of a crescent moon, and for hours she contemplated it by moonlight.
          She telephoned Vincent van Gogh. “Does the moon have a purpose?” she asked.
          Vincent van Gogh considered her question. He decided it was silly.
          Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question is whether to kill yourself or not.
          Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end.
          Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
          There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay?
          Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself.
          Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and the end of time.
          Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.

7

          Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear and sent it to Marilyn Monroe. Paul Gauguin was aghast. “That was in very bad taste, Vincent,” Gauguin said. “Years from now, after you are dead and gone, you will be better remembered for cutting off your ear than for the beauty and truth of your art.”
          From beneath his bandages, Vincent van Gogh looked at Paul Gauguin and smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Art takes care of itself. And what the world thinks of me when I am dead and gone is none of my concern. What matters is life. What matters is love. Yeah.”
          The next day, Paul Gauguin cut off his wife and sent himself to Tahiti.
          “Poor Gauguin,” sighed Vincent van Gogh. “He understood only half of what I said.”

8

          Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear and sent it to Marilyn Monroe. Immediately, he had second thoughts and fell into a deep depression.
          “Oh, why was I so presumptuous?” he asked. “An ear is much too intimate. And what if she doesn’t fancy ears? I might better have sent violets or phosphor. I should have sent potatoes, toothpaste or brush strokes of significant width. That ear will offend her, I know it. Oh, they ought to call me Vincent van Gauche. I’ve blown it again.”
          In the midst of all his fretting, a note arrived from America. “Dear Mister,” it began, “Thank you so much for the silk purse.” Vincent van Gogh relaxed. He grinned from ear to....Oops.

9

          Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear. He wanted to send it to Marilyn Monroe, but he didn’t know how to go about it.
          He couldn’t afford to deliver it in person. They had no mutual friends. And were he to send it to her movie studio, a stout woman in a tweed suit would be certain to throw it away.
          Dare he trust it to Railway Express? To United Parcel Service? To Brink’s?
          Vincent van Gogh’s ear was his love. Unable to send it through normal channels, he went out into the wheat field and sent it by crow.

Wheatfield With Crows, Vincent van Gogh, 1890

Moonlight Whoopee Cushion Sonata

Moonlight Whoopee Cushion Sonata - By Tom Robbins

I

The witch-girl who lives by the bend in the river is said to keep a fart in a bottle.

It's a poisonous fart, green as cabbage, loud as a shotgun; and after moonset or before moonrise, her hut is illuminated by its pale mephitic glow. For a time, passersby thought she had television.

Of course, no antenna sprouts from her thatched roof, no satellite dish dwarfs her woodpile, and can you imagine the cable company stringing wires across the marsh and through the forest so that a witch-girl could watch the Occult Channel? Anyway, how would she pay for it? With the contents of her mushroom basket, the black candles she makes from hornet fat, her belladonna wine? With that cello she saws with a human bone?

It's conceivable that she could pay for it with her body: her body's been admired by many a fisherman who's chanced upon her wading the rapids in loonskin drawers. But no man's ever bought her body, and only one has had the courage to take it for free.

That fellow's gone away now. It's said he fled back to South America and left her in the lurch. Oh, but she still has a hold on him, you can bet on that. Our witch-girl's got a definite hook in that fly-by-night romeo. She's woven his mustache hairs into a tiny noose. She's got his careless fart in a bottle by the stove.

II

Turn a mountain upside down, you have a woman. Turn a woman upside down, you have a valley. Turn a valley upside down, you get folk music.

In the old days, the men in our village played trombone. Some better than others, obviously, but most of the men could play. Only males, sad to say. The women danced. It was the local custom. The practice has all but died out, though to this day, grizzled geezers are known to hide trombones under their beds at the nursing home. It's strictly forbidden, but late on summer nights, you can sometimes hear nostalgic if short-winded trombone riffs drifting out of the third story windows, see silhouettes of old women on the second floor, dancing on swollen feet in fuzzy slippers or spinning in rhythmic circles in their wheelchairs.

As noted, however, our musical traditions have virtually vanished. Nowadays, people get their music from compact discs or FM radio. Who has time anymore to learn an instrument? Only the witch-girl by the bend in the river, sawing her cello with a human tibia, producing sounds like Stephen King's nervous system caught in a mousetrap.

When milk sours before it leaves the udder or grain starts to stink in the fields; when workers go out on strike at the sauerkraut factory, the missile base, or the new microchip plant down the road; when basements flood, lusty young wives get bedtime migraines, dogs wake up howling in the middle of the night, or the interference on TV is like a fight in hot grease between corn flakes and a speedboat, people around here will say, "The witch-girl's playing her cello again."

Turn folk music upside down, you get mythology. Turn mythology upside down, you get history. Turn history upside down, you get religion, journalism, hysteria, and indecision.

III

The setting sun turned the river into a little red schoolhouse. Thus motivated, the frogs got to work conjugating their verbs. The witch-girl handled the arithmetic.

The divided a woodpecker by the square root of a telephone pole.

Multiplied the light in a fox's eyes by the number of umlauts on a Häagen-Daz bar.

Added a kingfisher's nest to the Gross National Product.

Calculated the ratio of duende to pathos in the death song of a lamp-singed moth.

Subtracted a mallow from a marsh, an ant from an anthem, a buddha from a peach can shot full of holes.

IV

A white plastic bucket in a snowy field. A jackknife of geese scratching God's dark name in the sky. A wind that throbs but is silent. Candy wrappers silent against fence wire. Stags silent under their fright-wig menorahs. Bees silent in their science-fiction wax. A silent fiddle bow of blue smoke bobbing in the crooked chimney atop the witch-girl's shack.

It is on a cold, quiet Sunday afternoon past Christmas that the television crew arrives in our village. By suppertime, everybody but the hard cases at the nursing home knows it's in town. At the Chamber of Commerce breakfast Monday morning, hastily arranged to introduce the videopersons to the citizenry, the banquet room is overflowing. Understandably, we villagers assume the view is here to film the new industries of which we are rightly proud. The director is diplomatic when he explains that missile bases and microchip plants are a dime a dozen.

"We are making a documentary on flatus," the director explains. The audience is spellbound.

"A normal human being expels flatus an average of fourteen times per day," he goes on to say. There is a general muttering. Few would have thought the figure that high.

"We are speaking of all human beings, from babies in diapers to lawyers in three-piece suits. The mechanic billows the seat of his greasy coveralls, the glamorous movie actress poots through silk- and blames it on the maid or the Irish wolfhound. 'Naughty dog!'

"You people can do your math. That's eighty-four billion expulsions of flatus daily, worldwide, year after year. And that's just humans. Animals break wind, as well, so that wolfhound is not above suspicion. Anyway. We can explain reasonably well what flatus is: a gas composed primarily of hydrogen sulfide and varying amounts of methane. And whence it comes: generated i the alimentary canal by bacterial food waste, and vented through the anus. But where does it end up?"

Villagers look at one another, shake their heads. 

"I won't trouble you today with environmental considerations, though I'm certain you can conceive of an upper atmospheric flatus layer, eating away at the ozone. This will be covered in our film. What I want to share with you is the difficulties we have encountered in trying to photograph the elusive trouser ghost, a genie as invisible as it is mischievous."

The director (a handsome man who wears a denim jacket and smokes a pipe) explains that attempts at spectrographic photography, while scientifically interesting, failed to produce an image with enough definition or optic impact to hold the attention of a fake. He goes on to explain how he and his staff fed a live model on popcorn, beer, and navy beans, then lowered her buttocks into a vat of syrup. Those of us who have just eaten pancakes for breakfast smile uneasily. "We got some marvelous bubbles," the director says, "but a gas bubble per se is not a fart.

"On Saturday, we heard from a reliable source that a resident of this community, or someone who lives nearby, has succeeded in actually netting a rectal comet and maintaining it intact. We were skeptical naturally, and on deadline, but also excited  and a trifle desperate, so we impulsively dropped everything and traveled here at once. Now we are asking for your help. Does this person- and this preserved effluvium- exist? We were told only that the captor in question is some rich girl..."

"Witch-girl!" the audience cries out as one. Then, in gleeful unison- "Witch-girl" -they sing it out again.

***********

As for what happens next, the village is of two minds. The village, in fact, has split into a pair of warring camps. We have come to refer to the opposing factions as "Channel A" and "Channel B." Here are their respective versions.

Channel A

A week passes. The television crew fails to return from the river. Suspecting foul play, the sheriff and his deputies tramp through the leafless forest and across the frozen bogs.

The witch-girl has disappeared. So have the director and his camerawoman. The audio technician is found sitting on a stump, a depraved glaze coating his eyes. When asked about the whereabouts of the others, the soundman mumbles, "The hole in the cheese." Over and over, "Hole in cheese. Hole in cheese." Until they take him away to a sanatorium. (Some joker at the feed store said they hoped it was a Swiss sanatorium.)

Eight months later, on Cooked Angle Island, a prospector stumbles across three skeletons, strangely intertwined. Inside the skull of each of them, rattling like a translucent jade acorn, is a perfectly crystallized fart.

Channel B

The witch-girl us a big hit on PBS. Millions see her play the cello beside a bonfire, an owl perched on her shoulder. This has nothing to do with the subject of flatulence, but the director is obviously in her thrall.

She has a second fart-bottle on her nightstand now.

And throughout our township, television reception has significantly improved.

Coda

Perhaps it should be noted that sometime during this period on an Argentine Independence Day, a notorious playboy fell to his death from one of the numerous gilded balconies of his Buenos Aires apartment. According to his mistress of the moment, he lost his balance while trying to capture with a gaucho hat a particularly volatile green spark that had escaped from a fireworks display in the plaza. "Es mio!" he cried as he went over the side. It's mine.

A La Luna Ida Y Vuelta

I have a long distance romance with the Moon.

He constantly tells me he needs his space... (!)

And so I just admire from afar.

There is something very romantic about the witching hour to me. That time after midnight when the Moon is truly in its element, is when I really fall head over heals. The Moon's cultural impact and influence on our calendars, our language, our art, the tides and even women's cycles is enough to make a girl faint. Talk about power...

So, although the Moon may not come down for New Years to give me kisses at midnight, take me out to dinner on my birthday, or wine and dine me on anniversaries, I have an understanding that we've got the kind of energy which creates love. Call me a lunatic, but love does crazy things to people's brains sometimes.

The moon has a way of explaining things to me that nobody else ever has. This month he taught me that sometimes in life, the stars align a certain way, the universe tilts just so, and paths cross in just the perfect timing. It doesn't happen often, and I'm a firm believer that it doesn't happen to everyone, but when it does, it's like catching lightening in a bottle. Like "magic", so I was once told. There are certain circumstances in life and unexplainable connections that happen, that are so completely undeniable. Inconvenient or not.

Kurt Vonnegut once said: "We are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you different."

This is a false statement.

 You cannot snuff out your lightening and replace it with a fart hoping none to be the wiser. Earth is not for farting around. Earth is for farting a straight and specific path directly to your lightening, like it or not.

 I don't believe you can just go back to regularly scheduled programming once you've had a taste of that magic.

I do believe, however, that by trying to pretend it didn't happen, you're under the assumption that you're tricking the universe.

And you're not that smart. So stop it.

I'm getting off track here...

A blue moon, at least in the modern day sense, is whenever we're lucky enough to get 2 full moons in one month. The usual lunar cycle is 29.5(ish) days, which turns out to be an average of 12 full moons per year. (Even the word month derives from the word moon) But our solar calendar years have around 11 more days than our lunar. Those days accumulate every 2 to 3 years or so, and we get an extra. A bonus. A here-you-go-thanks-for-all-the-admiration-have-a-reward. Sort of like when a really great band puts on a free concert for their fans out of appreciation. At least that's what I like to think.

The moon really never turns blue during these magnificent encore showings, in fact the only time the moon really appears to turn a different hue is when there is a ton of smoke or ash in the atmosphere like after a giant volcano or enormous forest fire. Even then, actual visual blue moons have only been recorded in history a handful of times.

Anyway, we celebrated at our house last night with a couple of brewskies (shocker, I know) and I gave the moon a high five and said yes to its marriage proposal.

"Hold on to your divine blush, your innate rosy magic, or end up brown.
Once you're brown, you'll find out you're blue. As blue as indigo.
And you know what that means.
Indigo.
Indigoing.
Indigone."
~ Tom Robbins

The Genius Waitress

The Genius Waitress - By Tom Robbins

Of the genius waitress, I now sing.

Of hidden knowledge, buried ambition, and secret sonnets scribbled on cocktail napkins; of arching arches, ranting cooks, condescending patrons, and eyes diverted from ancient Greece to ancient grease; of burns and pinches and savvy and spunk; of a uniquely American woman living a uniquely American compromise, I sing. I sing of the genius waitress.

Ok, okay, she's probably not really a genius. But she is well educated. She has a degree in Sanskrit, ethnoastronomy, Icelandic musicology, or something equally valued in the contemporary marketplace. Even if she could find work in her chosen field, it wouldn't pay beans - so she slings them instead. (The genius waitress is not to be confused with the aspiring-actress waitress, so prevalent in Manhattan and Los Angeles and so different from her sister in temperament and I.Q.)

As a type, the genius waitress is sweet and sassy, funny and smart; underestimated, fatalistic, weary, cheery (not happy, cheerful: there's a difference and she understands it), a tad bohemian, often borderline alcoholic, frequently pretty (though her hair reeks of kitchen and bar); as independent as a cave bear (though ever hopeful of "true love") and, above all, genuine.

Covertly sentimental, she fusses over toddlers and old folks, yet only fear of unemployment prevents her from handing an obnoxious customer his testicles with his bill.

She doesn't mind a little good-natured flirting, and if you flirt with verve and wit, she may flirt back. Never, however, never try to impress her with your resume. Her tolerance for pretentious Yuppies ends with her shift, sometimes earlier. She reads men like a menu and always knows when she's being offered leftovers or an artificially inflated souffle.

Should you ever be lucky enough to be taken home by her to that studio apartment with the jerry-built bookshelves and Frida Kahlo posters, you will discover that whereas in the public dining room she is merely as proficient as she needs to be, in the private bedroom she is blue gourmet virtuoso. Five stars and counting! Afterward, you can discuss chaos theory or triple aspects of the mother goddess in universal art forms - while you massage her swollen feet.

Eventually, she leaves food service for graduate school or marriage, but unless she wins a grant or a fair divorce settlement, chances are she'll be back, a few years down the line, reciting the daily specials with her own special mixture of warmth and ennui.

Erudite emissary of eggs over easy, polymath purveyor of polenta and prawns, articulate angel of apple pie, the genius waitress is on duty right now in hundreds of U.S. restaurants, smile at the ready, sauce on the side. So brush up on your Schopenhauer, place your order - and tip, mister, tip. She deserves a break today.

Of her, I sing.

Playboy, 1991

Moving Along!

I've been looking at brown boxes and white walls for pretty much 2 days straight. I forgot how much effort it takes to unpack. I'm exhausted. My arms and legs are like jelly from running up and down stairs with boxes. These new stairs are not giving me much of an impressive first impression. This is much more of a workout than I bargained for. I'm not talking about the regular 12 step stairs either, these bitches are a steep flight and a half. 

Whenever I do acclimate to the climate and I dare to go on my first post-move jog, the front door is backed right up to the quiet city running trail. Which is awesome.

Everything arrived yesterday unbroken except for a single destroyed plant that had fallen over and was ripped out from the roots. Poor guy. From what I hear, the majority of my tropical plants aren't going to live through the Fall here anyway, regardless of all my new natural light from being on the 2nd floor, so I'm assuming this one may have taken his own life just to have it end as painless as possible.

Besides the obvious weather change and suicide plants, there are a couple more things to get used to here. Like the grocery stores. King Soopers? Sure, I'll try it out. I did need some frozen hash browns for breakfast, but where are they? Nowhere. I mean Nowhere. This store is gigantic, everything is a brand I don't recognize, and some of the things even have a medicinal marijuana version of them. I swear to God I walked up and down this stupid store for like an hour before I even found the frozen aisle. And even when I found it, it's like Or-Ida Potatoes don't exist here.

Anyway, I've unpacked my lucky can of beets.

I noticed they mysteriously landed in my cupboard about 10 years ago after having read Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins. Anyone who has ever read that book will certainly understand my love of beets. I swear I didn't buy them. I have no idea where they came from, but I move them from place to place for good luck even though they are years past their expiration date. 

They go well in my kitchen, which I adore by the way, but these high ceilings are going to take some getting use to. In the living room they're great, but I'm little. 5"2' on a good day, so in the kitchen they make reaching the top shelves on the cupboards a little tricky. 

I've also lost my sliding glass shower doors, which I didn't realize when looking at the place online, so since I haven't made it to Target yet, I've had to dig out my psycho killer shower curtain from the Halloween box. 

So we're getting there is my point. Slowly but surely. There is still a ton of things to do and unpack, but we're getting there...