Moon Dance

It's the best I could do with my phone. I was sitting inside and had to be reminded of the moon.  Oh!  So I took a stroll down to the lake and got a lucky look.  The moon was rising far to the south.  It was a Southern Moon, I'd say, on a balmy southern night.  Crickets, frogs, bass, snakes, and gators.  I lingered for awhile in the quiet night.  

Back home, I was getting texts about the Democratic Convention.  I couldn't watch it.  I don't have cable and have yet to buy a digital antenna.  And last night, I was glad not to be remotely tempted.  I abhor pomp and circumstance.  It frightens me more than clowns or Sierra Ferrell and is hugely less entertaining.  I had other texts, though.  Tennessee invited me to dinner at his house too late for I was already cooking.  My old college roommate texted to say that our other college roommate had come to his house unannounced and unexpected.  "I haven't seen him since the 80s," he said.  My buddy lives in a gated community and the visitor was told he was unavailable.  This visitor was the roommate who told me god had come to him one night and said I couldn't have my girlfriend spend the night anymore.  My buddy and I moved out, and that was that.  The Christian fellow ended up being a big player on the state's education board.  He never had children.  

But neither did my college roommate or I.  Huh.  

My longtime pal who I am seeing again after our break up some five years ago was texting about the convention, too.  He and C.C were in agreement about it but for different reasons.  Funny that.  

I heard from others, too.  Texts.  The lifeblood of a shut-in.  

Nobody uses the telephone for talking anymore.  It is more a camera than a phone.  It is a teletype.  

Travis sent a phone pic of the moon.  For travelers and adventurers, there is an essential connection with it.  It is what you gazed at from your perch on a deserted beach or from your balcony in some primitive desert.  The vision of the moon was the same there as it was from your home.  The moon, "that inconstant orb," is a traveller's constant, steadfast, and stalwart companion.  

The television quiet, I drank coconut water and thought through a million complications.  Then, of course, when I went to bed, I had the most vivid dreams.  I woke once and rose, but when I went back to sleep, it was the same dream or, rather, a continuation of the one I'd been having.  It was not only vivid, it was bizarre. 

But enough of that.  I have tentative plans for nights out the rest of the week.  Nights out or nights with company.  

Here's a thought.  Yesterday, sitting with my mother, I heard the ice cream truck's little jingle.  I said to my mother and her across the street neighbor, "You know what would make more money than an ice cream truck?  A martini truck!  Hell, people would be lining the streets waiting."

The neighbor was tickled by that and said it was a million dollar idea.  I should look into it.  

A million complications.  A million ideas under a Full Southern Moon.  And still, I wonder. . . 

"Can I have just one more moon dance with you. . . my love?"