So anyway the sky finally cracked open Sunday with brilliant spears of sunshine that vanquished the dull clouds, sending them scudding to the East where they belong, clearing the deep blue heavens bright as a flag above the summer-warmed earth.
Yet still you could hear them nearby, the sudden honk of the geese calling all comrades to gather. Squadrons of sparrows and finches have been collecting for brief sorties. The squirrels have been going mad with furious noshing and collecting the impossible, digging holes everywhere with a manic frenzy. Everything is getting restless for some kind of change.
This last Friday the clinics reported a Blue Moon with all sorts of manias dropping in for medication.
Over at Sausal Creek a fellow came in and, after surrendering his big bowie knife when he got wanded, paced back and forth, said people were out to get him and he was going to kill himself. Then he went outside the trailor there and came back in and Nurse Sharon offered to help him. He ranted a bit, went outside, came back in, said there were people he wanted to kill and could he have his knife back and Nurse Sharon told him that all depends and would he take some medication. The man went outside again, paced around and came back and this went on for a good while with the voices talking to him until Nurse Sharon got him calmed down and taking some medication with the OPD dropping by and wanting to haul him off to John George Pavilion. But she managed to work it all out without that happening.
While Nurse Sharon was taking a break, smoking a cigarette and cursing the shrink who had put the man on water pills, a woman showed up at the window taking off all her clothes in the foyer with her husband and kids there amid a manic episode.
"Mommy! Mommy! Don't worry!" one of the kids said. He was probably about eight years old. "We'll take care of you."
The announcement came over the PA. "Nurse Sharon, come to the front. We got a situation."
Sharon sighed and stubbed out her cigarette. No more break. Just another day in Paradise under a Blue Moon.
On the hill at John George all the cases under 5150 three day hold howled at the Blue Moon for the loss of everything they every had at one time.
Under the Blue Moon everything cuts loose and the fur starts to fly. Rachel got off work from the Metronome where she teaches ballroom dancing and tangled with one of the Caltrans workers in the restroom of the Lost Weekend Lounge even before getting plastered. When Marsha came in she was aghast at the state of her co-worker, who normally maintained an aloof, aristocratic air of dignified bearing appropriate to one who taught the gavrotte and the waltz.
"Rachel," she said sternly. "You are sitting there with torn stockings, legs akimbo, your dress up about your hips, your hair a rampage of disarray and your mascara all smeared and it is clear you are drunk! Go home!"
"No!" Rachel said emphatically. "I am having fun!"
Things happen at the end of summer under a Blue Moon.
The gardens of the Island are fabulous places this time of year. They say that there are English garden-styles, featuring neatly clipped hedges, and orderly arrangements where the lines are straight and everything is pristine with not a weed out of place. Then there are the Irish-style gardens which tend to be riots of color and luxurious confusion.
Of the two, the Irish style is found to be most prevalent here. California is too exhuberant to lend itself well to orderliness. Attempts to render California and Californians into something orderly always end in tears and tragedy.
The birds of paradise are fading, contrary to all expectation, but the pole beans are burgeoning, the squashes are squishing, the trumpet flowers glow incarnadine, and the lilies are coming back. Strawberries just passed their peak season, and if you have grapes on your trellis you count yourself among the blessed.
It is well known that of all the supposedly secondary characters in the Lord of the Rings books, JRR Tolkein reserved most affection for the gardener, also a ringbearer for a brief while. When, after all the ornate gilt jewel encrusted gifts had been distributed, the gardener received from the elf queen the best gift of all in the form of a seed nestled in a bit of earth, and the gardener recognized that this was the most precious gift of all, for neither gold nor diamonds possess the magic ability to grow into life.
We are a little like the hobbits with our gardens. We don't go out much and we don't care much for adventures although a number of us have lived through them in the past.
Eugene Gallipagus has been fixing up his gear for fishing, for if there is one thing that can distract him from hunting poodles, that would be trout.
He was coming back from the Old Same Place bar and finding a need to relieve the pressure from a round of Fat Tire ales went into the park there to find a tree. While thinking about a particular trout stream a tipsy Maeve found him there and she put her arms around him.
"I hear you are some kind of trout fisherman," Maeve said.
"Um, uh . . .". Eugene said, not quite finished with what he had started and not quite able to abruptly stop things in progress. "Dry flies."
"Well lets see about your flies," Maeve said. "For I am all wet . . .".
"O! O, dear . . ."! Eugene said.
Later, the two of them looked up at the moon sailing serenely across the skies, listening as the long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the blue water, over the manic waves of the estuary and the Buena Vista flats as the locomotive glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off on its journey to parts unknown.
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