fromthemouthofmoi

The other day I woke to a news article/video on The BBC: The Dumping Ground for Unwanted Clothes  that left me wondering what in God's name was the point of recycling? Don't get me wrong, I am not against recycling but I probably don't do it for the reasons you do. To save the planet? Good luck with that! A while back someone made an offhand comment to me regarding their 'travel footprint' and having some concerns about their contribution, through air travel, towards global warming. The ever present bubble over my head which in this case trailed an ellipsis, asked: I wonder how hard it is to join the Amish... I secretly wondered how 'guilt' had become so complicated. As a Catholic I was like, really? Are people really going to confession now and confessing they went to Florida for the winter on a plane? I am saving my feelings of guilt for other stuff that seems way more important than my travel footprint or how many plastic bags I use. I am only interested

Leaving Facebook, deactivating my profile, feels like a relief. All of the people I was friends with are wonderful people in their own right. I truly cherish them all. But some of them I honestly believe I will never hear from again not because we are not friends but because Facebook has trained people out of communication. If Facebook is not there it will never occur to some to write a letter or send an email or FaceTime me. It's scary. What I found to be troublesome was how much FB pressured people to know this person, or join this group or to get involved with things outside of your group of friends. On the surface that looks all community-like, harmless and chummy but the fact of the matter is those other places on Facebook and those other people I may know are really fucked up places to be with really fucked up people who take angry and hate to a new level. Those other places is where crazy lives. I dipped my toe into a local group in my community run by Yucatecans.  I thought

Imagine if you will a group of artists that come together, sometimes virtually, sometimes face to face to work on a project. Imagine further that at other times, in other spaces, other artists will again gather to create. Imagine that the house that they create in is called Tral Neu.  Guest artists, in alphabetical order, are: Richard Anderson : Is a London based artist who combines music with visual art under the name, This Is The Bridge . His work explores dystopian/social themes and urban landscapes with a particular interest in brut architecture. Gran Bankrott (aka Gran): Is described as a Viennese Wunderkind experimentalist. Formally with the experimental punk group Dot Dash, most recently recording under the name Starship Skysaw and one half of the S/M performance duo, 2 Pigs Under 1 Umbrella.  Moira Kirstin Boyd: Is a former New Yorker living in The Yucatan. She is a formally trained bel canto singer and has collaborated with other artists within the underground music scene, mo

I am in a dental office and I am a dental assistant. I am one of three. I am waiting to go in with the next patient and assist the dentist who is a very old, plump and a mildly senile Anthony Hopkins. When I finally go in I see that Hopkins has the most exquisite nose I’ve ever seen and I fall in love with his nose. I am seduced. He must notice this because he begins to flirt with me. Over an oral examination with a patient I become involved with Anthony Hopkins. He has invited me to his home to share Thanksgiving. He has not invited the other dental assistants. In his home are three of his grandchildren, all adult women, his son, and his daughter in law. We have a lovely thanksgiving meal and then we go to sit in the living room. Anthony nods off to sleep, his head falling back, and his mouth full open and making saliva gurgling sounds. It is then that I see he is kind of too old for me. He wakes up and begins to flirt with me again and this time he kisses me. I get sight of his nose

In my mind, planning to go shopping next Wednesday is no different from saying next Wednesday I might die. Both are possibilities and both may or may not happen. The only difference is that my plans to spend money at Macy's can be visualized whereas dying and being dead can't. We have this idea that when we die our loved ones with greet us on the other side. Are 'loved ones' people we loved? People who loved us or some sort of mutual love? Does one have to have known someone personally in order to find them on the other side? I have huge plans to expand who greets me after death. I want to see my father again and Blanche. (If you are alive as I write this I am not even considering you at this point). I'd like to see my Aunt Charlotte too. There are quite a few people that I've known, now dead, no animosity felt, but I could care less if I ever see them again but if they need to see me, that's fine. We can do a little nosh one day. But I want to see Buster Ke

At my wake snatch the drink from the hand of the one who utters:  Rest in Power. Trust that I was weary and looked forward to Resting in Peace. In that other sphere I don't wish for power, I'll be done and dusted.

I  began this piece around September 5th. I got the bulk of it down and then on September 10th I began to feel that same old sensation of: Just go to another room, Moira. I wanted to publish it on September 11th but I don't feel safe until I get to September 12th. Today being September 15th I feel I am in the clear.  I can't stop that feeling. That sensation. The feeling that if I don't just put my head down and steady myself and keep going I will burst into tears. Today I feel like I can write safely; it's all done and dusted -- at least until next year. Last year was meant to be the first and last time I talked about September 11th, 2001. Two thousand twenty was also the first time I watched any memorial type rehash of that day. I was only able to watch whatever it was with one eye open and I made excuses to leave the room to deal with things in other rooms telling myself I could hear from elsewhere. I have been happiest remembering 9/11 when I am safely in September

After posting a tongue -n-cheek narrative on Facebook about my experiences with stoves while living in Mexico, a few people, unknown to me, asked what I might know about washing machines. I have a dear friend in Denmark who sometimes calls to ask me what he can put in his machine. I've thought about this subject for years and the truth is I know too much but I am still never going to be considered an expert. I have had huge arguments in my life with lovers whom I thought had very odd relationships with washing machines. I have witnessed people pour in laundry soap never thinking the cap had a purpose --they went at it like laundry soap was water being emptied into the gullet of a desert thirsty cowboy resulting in so many soap bubbles in the window that 85 subsequent washes with no soap would still result in a soapy wash. If you're going to ask me I'd say a lot of people have a relationship with their washing machine that would be better worked out in therapy. You can tell

  My mother opted for assisted suicide in November of this past year. I wish I could say more, but I really can’t. She’d had enough. There wasn’t much going on with her health other than a recent fall, she just didn’t want to go through another winter, she claimed. Neither her children could keep her here nor her pet dog.  I don’t really know who my mother was. She was a complete mystery. She had demons that only God knew about; personal insight was not her forte. She spoke French, Spanish, English, Latin, knew some Greek, and at one time was learning Mandarin. My father once told me that she spoke German fluently as well but hid that fact because of the war. Her father was from Buch, Germany. She used a lot of German words in my upbringing with a ‘gesundheit’ here and a ‘halt’ there. She was an exquisite painter, an excellent chef, and could look at fashion magazines and whip up clothing from sight alone. She never went to a beauty salon that I know of and instead cut her own hair. Sh

  In part, Diane’s passing marks the end of an era. The end of a time in history when the work in HIV research was experimental and run by mavericks. Diane was a ‘maverick’ in the truest sense of the word. We all were no matter the discipline we worked in. We were trailblazers. Diane was a complex woman. If you didn’t come to know her she was just a tall British woman who put the fear of God in you. She was pragmatic, demanding, and proudly British, even though she confided in me that she felt much more American than British. Diane liked things just so. An inch either way would be enough for her to voice a strong opinion. Opinionated women can often be alarming, but in Diane I found a heroine. I admired and looked up to Diane. She was no-nonsense. I can remember her calling patients into her office for pelvic examinations with a loudly overheard: Let’s have a look-see, or a get those feet up in the stirrups. I am sure that had she been a man she’d have been reported into oblivion, but