I love all phases of the moon but I especially search for the full moon no matter where I am, whether it’s in the desert or the mountains or at the beach or even if it’s at my house–mama moon always makes her presence known and felt.
Tonight’s moon after the clouds is so bright!
I know it’s not really pink but that’s only a slight disappointment. Tonight’s full moon is also a super moon which means that the moon is full while also in perigee, or closest approach to Earth.
It’s actually referred to as a Pink Moon because Moss Phlox are in full bloom during this season.
I found this awesome YouTube video with all of the healing sounds and frequencies and thought I’d share it so everyone has plenty of time to dedicate to this experience.
It starts at 14hz and moves to 12.5hz at 4.20 minutes; 6.35 minutes it moves to 7.83hz (Schumann Resonance) for 12 minutes, then drops to 0.5hz until the end. There is an underlying base frequency of 432hz which is enhanced within the music as well. The music has an underlying frequency of 285Hz.
I hope you enjoy this. I like to use headphones but it’s not 100% necessary. Don’t forget to charge your crystals!
Anyone participating in World Naked Gardening Day?
No?
Well, I’m not either, that’s for sure.
I’m moving furniture, shampooing carpets, channeling Cinderella, and obsessing over the only full nest at Casa de Enchanted Seashells.
My little yummy hummy mummy is doing what most animals do naturally — be an attentive and protective mother.
enchantedseashells.com
In the late afternoon sunlight, I removed the screen in the dining room window and leaned all the way out to capture the iridescence.
enchantedseashells.com
Have you ever seen a hummingbird stay almost perfectly still for more than two minutes?
I set up the tripod and took some video of her nest sitting, blinking her little eyes, and swaying in the breeze.
There’s a bit of shake (sorry) but the tripod was in a precarious position on top of a bench in order to get the best angle.
When she first started building the nest, I waited until she flew away in order to reinforce the chimes with twine to make sure they’d support the extra weight and not fall down,
YouTube video:
(And congrats to Princess Kate for giving birth to a royal little girl! )
For a brief moment in time, I lived my life’s dream of being an actress.
I had an agent.
I even combined my love for writing with my desire to become the next Oscar winner and wrangled a real live Press Pass from the Theater Arts Guild (which I saved all these years and take out to weep on every so often as just another unrealized dream.)
One time, I interviewed Bob Hope and Connie Francis. By the way, funny as you think he was on stage, he was an absolute JERK behind the scenes. At least that’s what I observed as he demanded that his white Rolls Royce be driven underground at the Sports Arena where he was to appear with Connie Francis in a tribute to the military. There was such a small crowd that a near-panic ensued and busloads of Marines drove in to fill up the seats and save the day.
Anyhoo, I get that I was a nobody with a freshly minted press pass, but I did write for a legitimate publication and he didn’t have to be so rude and dismissive. I wrote an honest, authentic, and genuine piece, not a speck of fluff anywhere. I still have the article somewhere along with my press pass. One day I’ll rummage around in my box of broken dreams and post it.
From tiny on-screen moments on the beach in a bathing suit in Harry- O with David Janssen to my last shoot as a Costa Rican hooker in Deadly Desire with Jack Scalia, it seemed as if I had a calling. I even had a few bit parts with lines, although most of them ended up on the proverbial cutting room floor, so there’s nothing to be found on YouTube to document my star’s brief rise and fall.
Upon reflection, I’m not quite sure why I was typecast as a prostitute? Bimbo in a bikini? Oh well, another fantasy died, thanks to an abundance of wrinkles and hundreds of pockets of cellulite. Time marches on, right?
There was a time I had auditioned for a film that was shooting in San Diego, “Stuntman”, starring the great Peter O’Toole.
Me with Alex Rocco.Photo property of Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife
There I was, once again, a girl in a bikini, on the beach in La Jolla. (Nice abs, if I do say so myself.)
That’s where I met Peter O’Toole. Because we were right on the beach, it was a fairly egalitarian scene. It was fascinating for me to watch actors as they rehearsed their script outdoors — like Steve Railsback who kept going over his lines; “We’re losing the light, Chuck.” “Chuck, we’re losing the light” “We’re losing the damn light, Chuck!”
Photo courtesy of sandiegohistory.org
And then there was Mr. O’Toole as he was called, pretzeling his tall, extremely skinny body onto his special chair, one leg laconically tossed onto the arm as he half-sat, half-reclined — star power all the way — and he raised his voice, knowing that he’d command attention in less than two syllables, ” Where’s my coffee? I want my coffee HOT!” to all of the hovering assistants.
He was so thin that he showed us how he wore layers and layers of clothing — even in the summer — to give his body a little padding. (I heard Frank Sinatra did the same thing.)
I was way too cool to ask for an autograph; I wanted him to think of me as an equal; a fellow “actor”, not as a fawning sycophant.
All of us cute young barely clothed girls had an easy time as desired accessories around the set; we had more access to the celebrities, we watched them play chess or checkers or were even invited to eat lunch with them.
At the time, I thought that I was being singled out for my “specialness” and my acting skills; now I see that there was a darker and more exploitative side to what goes on behind the scenes. Trust me, the casting couch is alive and well in Hollywood.
But for me, it was all innocent, all good, all wholesome. I didn’t get drawn into any of the after-hours partying, didn’t make any bad choices in life or follow a destructive path.
My acting pursuits ended with the birth of the Angel Boy except for an inspiring portrayal of that Costa Rican hooker.
My very last line…”Te gusta, señor?” (“You like, Mister?”)
Act on, Mr. O’Toole. Break a leg. You are remembered and missed.
Thirty-two years ago I was sixty pounds heavier than I am today. I lost a lot of that weight on March 23rd when I finally gave birth, but on March 2, I was nesting, adding final touches to the nursery. Back in those days, amniocentesis and tests to determine sex weren’t the norm and I had no scientific proof — but I knew absolutely for sure — I was going to have a boy. I knew it from the very beginning. I had no doubt.
This isn’t my Angel Boy’s birthday tribute; that’ll happen later.
I’m just so very proud of him and all he’s accomplished and it seems like a good day for a couple of poems. Not by me, though.
He got his Ph.D. last year from Yale. His dissertation also was due in March — March is an important month — his diss focuses onGoethe, Stifter, and Benjamin. It incorporates his love for nature and philosophy.
Eco-poetics
The term ecopoetics has become increasingly important to scholars and poets alike. It is certainly a critical moment for the field and practice.
The conference addressed these topics: What is ecopoetics? What representational strategies and sociopolitical commitments might characterize this practice? How might we periodize ecopoetics and situate its modes of cultural production?
My son was lucky enough to meet Robert Hass at the conference. Hass served as Poet Laureate of the United States from 1995 to 1997. He won the 2007 National Book Award and shared the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for the collection Time and Materials: Poems 1997-2005.
Enjoy a couple poems by Robert Hass…
Spring Rain
Now the rain is falling, freshly, in the intervals between sunlight,a Pacific squall started no one knows where, drawn east as the drifts of
warm air make a channel;it moves its own way, like water or the mind,and spills this rain passing over. The Sierras will catch it as last snow
flurries before summer, observed only by the wakened marmots at ten
thousand feet,and we will come across it again as larkspur and penstemon sprouting
along a creek above Sonora Pass next August,
where the snowmelt will have trickled into Dead Man’s Creek and the
creek spilled into the Stanislaus and the Stanislaus into the San Joaquin
and the San Joaquin into the slow salt marshes of the bay.
That’s not the end of it: the gray jays of the mountains eat larkspur seeds,
which cannot propagate otherwise.
To simulate the process, you have to soak gathered seeds all night in the acids of coffee
and then score them gently with a very sharp knife before you plant them
in the garden.
You might use what was left of the coffee we drank in Lisa’s kitchen
visiting.
There were orange poppies on the table in a clear glass vase, stained
near the bottom to the color of sunrise;
the unstated theme was the blessedness of gathering and the blessing of
dispersal—
it made you glad for beauty like that, casual and intense, lasting as long
as the poppies last.
The Failure of Buffalo to Levitate
Millard Fillmore died here.
His round body is weighted by marble angels
He lies among the great orators of the Iroquois.
Paint does not arrest the tradebook houses
In their elegant decay. They peel
Like lizards in the dying avenues of elm.
Gentle enough, night drifts
Above the yellow bursts of aspen in the park.
Something innocent and reptilian
Suffers here, cumbrously.
The souls of the wives of robber barons
Are imprisoned in the chandeliers. http://www.poetryfoundation.org
Enchanted Seashells by Princess Rosebud 