Winter Moon Rising

Winter Moon Rising
Sharp and Bright, like the Truth

Thursday, August 21, 2014

My big fat supid diet

I love sugar, especially sugar combined with copious amounts of white flour. I'm giving both of them up for a year, and I already have a bad attitude. This is one of the first things I made in the last week that I actually liked.

Mushroom Chicken and Broccoli 

Heat a T of olive oil in 8 inch skillet. Add 1/2 cup chopped onion, 1-2 cups sliced mushrooms, and a clove of diced garlic. Cook until vegetables collapsed and a little sauce forms. Add a cup of cooked chicken and a cup of frozen broccoli, as well as a can of cream of chicken soup and enough water to make it nice and creamy. Simmer briefly a few minutes, everything is already cooked and you want the broccoli hot but still quit crisp. Yum!

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Singing Again

It's black or white
You do or you don't
Can't stay in the middle
I just won't

Either you want me
Or your letting me go
Can't have it both ways
Either yes or no

You're either in or out
There's no fast then slow
Put your foot on the pedal
Or get out of the flow

It's black or white
That's the way that I am
Won't stand and wait
While you decide if you can

I'm either all in
Or I'm all go
Or I'm all go.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013


This is a fictional short story.

It’s 2:17am Wednesday morning and I’m awake again.
I followed all of the rules the women’s magazines list for a good night’s rest.
I took the TV out of the bedroom. No more late night’s with Leno.
Computer’s in the kitchen.
I had a small, satisfying snack at 9:45 and was tucked neatly into bed by 10:00.
I had one 3 mg. Tablet of time-released Melatonin and a Benadryl (for my allergies, of course).
I read one Chapter of Tolkien’s Return of the King, because it’s a favorite, and there would be no temptation to stay up reading for hours, like there would have been with the new Evonovitch novel I have laying right next to it on my night-stand.
I felt pleasantly drowsy, and I didn’t even hear Nick come to bed.
My eyes popped open at 1:45 A.M., and here I am.
My bones actually ache with a hollow feeling I know is loneliness. Turning silently, I can watch Nick sleeping on his stomach, silky lashes closed, breathing softly. I can’t blame this on snoring. He doesn’t do it. He barely even moves at night, sleeping deeply, and waking up refreshed.
It’s completely quiet in the house, except for the soft rustle of the air-conditioner. I don’t need to check it to know that the thermostat is set at 68 degrees. The absolute perfect temperature for sleeping. So why do I feel like I’m being smothered?
I just have to get up. I push the quilt off and lower my legs to the floor and stand up without jostling Nick at all. I open the door, step thru, and close it again. Without making a single sound. I’m getting good at this.
I wander through the darkness, slowly making my way to the sliding doors at the back of the house. I push the sheers back and pull the door open a foot. There’s a whoosh of sound as the unnaturally cooled air escapes. It’s like opening a hermetically-sealed can. Standing in the door, I feel the fingers of the night gently lift my nightgown and mold it softly to my body. The wind is warm. A delicious shiver of feeling washes over me.
I take a deep breath and feel myself unwinding as I let it escape. I lift my arms, lean against the frame and stare out at the lush, black velvet of the sky.
The moon must be almost full: I don’t see it from this window, but it couldn’t be this bright without it. The grass is wet and shiny: the automatic sprinklers have already been on and off. And out beyond our little stab at civility, the desert hills are rolling and the wind is calling. Nick’s going to put up a fence this summer, but for now, we’re still wide open.
The night is a thousand shades of gray, not black and white like you would think.
I take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds and then exhale slowly. I’m really starting to relax.
What’s that? Up above, on the crest of the hill, the shadows twist and turn and then resolve into the shape of a jogger, running. I watch him for several seconds as he strides alone.
Suddenly he stops, turns, and seems to be staring straight down at me.

I’m startled. I turn and fumble the door closed. Shaking a little. How dumb is that? It’s time to go back to bed. But I can sleep now.
Thursday morning 2:24am. Oh, sigh.
Lifting the curtain above the kitchen sink, I look out. It’s beautiful again. I open the sliding door and step through. I try to number the stars, and then start picking out the individual clumps of sage on the hill.
He’s there again. Standing still. Before I can get totally freaked out, he turns to leave, lifting a hand in farewell.
Friday morning 5:54am. I slept until almost six o’clock in the morning! I feel reborn.
Saturday morning 1:47am.
There’s just no justice in the universe.
I sit on the couch for a while, the leather cool against my skin, then wander to the door despite by better judgement.
I watch for several minutes, looking carefully across the hills.
He’s not there.
Just me and the crickets.
I wander over to the couch, lay down and pull the fleece blanket up around my shoulders. I fall asleep watching the wind play quietly in the curtains and wake up a moment later to find him standing in the doorway.
I’m on my feet again, standing shocked and still.
I should be afraid. Maybe even terrified! But I’m really not. I don’t recognize him. But somehow, I remember him instead.
He’s dressed in darkness, a gray cloak floating in the wind like cobwebs. He smiles and turns toward the night, lifting a hand to me. “Let’s play in the moonlight.”
I don’t stop to even think about it: I grasp his hand and flee across the wet grass and up the dry hills.
It isn’t long before I fall behind. The sandy path turns rocky and steep. It hurts my bare feet. Looking above me, I see him running effortlessly up the hill ahead.
“Wait! Wait for me!” I stumble upward, breathless and crying. Always running. Always behind.
Coming to the top of the hill, I find the moon, big and full. He’s waiting for me there. I take his hand and he pulls me up against hot skin, under the cloak. Reaching up, I try to hold him, but the cloak get in the way. He disappears into nothingness, as the cloak wraps itself tightly around me, binding me in heat and darkness. I struggle to get free. I’m being smothered!
I scream and come awake as I fall off the couch flat on my butt. I fight my way out of the stupid fleece blanket, stand up sweating and shaking and...naked?
I walk shakily into the kitchen and drink a glass of cold water. I walk back to the sliding glass door. I can see two sets of wet footprints slowly drying on the cement. Looking down at my feet, there’s a piece of grass sticking between my toes.
Okay, fine.
The moon is still shining, the wind is still soft. I slide the door shut, push the lock down, pull the sheers across the glass and turn away.
It’s 2:45am Saturday morning.
I think I’ll read for a while.

Don't Feel So Bad

Don't feel so bad, babe
It's not your fault
Don't look so sad
I don't blame you at all,

It's just a case of mistaken emotion
You have to few, and I have an ocean
So, don't feel so bad.

They say time heals all wounds
But that's just not true
Not while I cherish
Pain inflicted by you.

Go on and leave, babe
I won't follow you
I've got some pride
You've better things to do.

It's just a case of mistaken emotion
You have to few, and I have an ocean
So don't feel so bad.

Monday, September 9, 2013

Feeling Country-Songish

Thigh-high in alligators, looking for the boat
Didn't pay attention; please throw me a rope!

Throw me a rope, let me come in
I picked the wrong day to go for a swim
Teeth in my heart, a bump on the chin
Throw me a rope, baby let me come in!

I lost my balance, you pushed me in
Those big ol' tears don't match your grin
You're rolling me now, going under again.
Don't want that rope, you'll hurt me again.

Throw me a rope, baby let me come in
Let me out of the water, I won't swim again
Watching your eyes, there's a noose on the end
I'll chance the water, going under again.

Teeth in my heart and bump on the chin
Keep that rope, never swimming again.

Saturday, December 31, 2011

Where are we?

December 31, 2011

Today my Dad asked me where we were. It wasn’t the question that got me; it was the tone of voice.

He is dying and it is a disorienting experience, apparently. I know that sounds odd, but that is how it seems.

He had a terrible night, he was up and down, back and forth to the bathroom. I really don’t even clue into it usually, it’s an endless circle of exhausting activity. The only protection I can give my brain is to just take every second as it comes.

But sometime in the very early morning, he went into the exercise room in the dark, closed the door and fell.

 My mom came downstairs to where I was sleeping. “I can’t find him!”

I really thought she’d gone mental. It’s a very small house.

I looked through it as well, and heard his voice. When we opened the door and turned on the light, he was on the floor, his legs tangled up in the laundry. I had to pull him into their bedroom, and then help him stand up to get in bed.

When he was lying down in the middle of his bed, we tried to get his c-pat mask back on, but the hose is broken. I suspect that is why he was so agitated; he hadn’t been getting any oxygen. We put the regular O2 on and he wanted mom to lie down on one side of him, and me on the other.

Let me tell you that was an odd one. Official end of even pretending to sleep. When it turned light outside I got up, and of course, he did too.

After he went to the bathroom I followed him back into the bedroom, and tucked him in.

“Where are we, Carla?”

“We are at home, Dad.”



“Well, okay.” He said it as it made absolutely no sense to him, but he would believe it if I
believed it.

Maybe he’s right.  We really aren’t home. Home is pulling at him from beyond, and some part of
His spirit recognizes that.  I can believe now that he was a dear friend of mine in heaven, and is
going back sometime very soon.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011


You don’t possess anything; it possesses you.

You don’t even own yourself; God does.

The only thing that is truly yours is whatever amount of the universal truth you allow to sink into your soul, and the love and ties that you make with other souls that are the very heart of that truth.