anitalorrainemoore

Musician devoted to Justice, Creativity, and Courage


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Candlelight on a Friday Night

Everyone’s trying to find themselves these days;

seems like the topic of the decade.

Lovers masked behind the text on a screen,

alcohol masking all emotions to be seen.

Our game of tug-of-war between our projections and our shadows,

we stand, stunned in silent stillness, wondering how deep the wound goes.

We’ve forgotten the non-electric world,

between fingers, between addictions, distractions….the absurd.

I’m always on the verge of falling in love… and a desire to be safely furled.

My fear of intimacy may actually be unknowing – can I learn?

Who can teach me?  How do attraction and true love work?

I sit here by candlelight on a cold and dreamy Friday,

wondering if my body’s wasting away.

All the while, imagine the line outside,

hanging my drying lingerie.

 

 


TuesDayNewsDay Vol.2 Issue 18, November 5

Dedication: Today’s issue is dedicated to Maggie! She’s my bff and source of unending immoral laughter! She loves animals and growing things, people… not so much.  She has a healthy addiction to overalls and she loves cold weather like I do.   She’s introverted and would rather stay home in most circumstances.  She loves making lists and learning.  She makes bangin’ pintos and cornbread.  She loves to can and put up food for the Winter.  We agree and disagree on much and still get along because we respect each other.  She has the best smile I’ve ever seen, there’s always food in her fridge and coffee within arms length.  ♥

Image may contain: 1 person, textImage may contain: 1 person, smiling, hat and closeup

Song: Canned Goods by Greg Brown – this song reminds me of Maggie and Rebecca Boogz.  My besties are all about the canning.   ♥♥♥  Canned Goods video

“Let the wild Winter wind bellow and blow… I’m as warm as a July to-may-to! Taste a little of the Summer.. gradma put it all in jars…

When I go to see my grandma
I gain a lot of weight
With her dear hands
she gives me plate after plate.
She cans the pickles, sweet & dill
She cans the songs of the whippoorwill
And the morning dew
and the evening moon ‘N’
I really got to go see her pretty soon
‘Cause these canned goods
I buy at the store
Ain’t got the summer
in them anymore.
You bet, grandma,
as sure as you’re born
I’ll take some more potatoes
and a thunderstorm. ”

Here’s the link to this weeks Facebook song series: Tuesday Song Series Video!

Dear Humans: Last week, I had the pleasure of singing with the Spektacles at 2nd Wind in Carrboro for Halloween! I dressed up as Columbia; we were all characters from one of my faves, Rocky Horror Picture Show. My hair was crazy Manic Panic red. Took me an hour to clean my bathroom after I washed it out.

I went to the Frida and Diego exhibit with Robert (my badass friend and drummer) over the weekend – it was a surprise! That was awesome. It was also Dia de los Muertos and the museum had altars (ofrendas) all over the place in addition to the exhibits themselves. Later on that night, my neighbors had their first inaugural fire pit party; I LOVED the SMORES!

This week is booming with business! Crystal Bright and I have a show a week from today in Greensboro at the Lucky 32 restaurant. I’m looking forward to that. Tomorrow night, I’m cooking dinner at my dear friend Martha’s house for her houseguest from Chile, Nino, who’s presenting his thesis at UNC! Thursday I’m speaking on a panel at Guilford College with two professors. We are hosted by Democracy Matters, College Republicans and the College Democratic Socialists on the topic of the 2020 election and the problem of big money in politics. Big action week!

Right now, I’m stoked about reading Joni Mitchell’s new book, Morning Glory on the Vine and getting back into painting after a long hiatus. The last two weeks have been very creative and inspiring with poetry and drawing, song-writing and painting. I even meditated once last week!

Our Shake Sugaree Jonathan Byrd residency Kraken community lost a dear friend this past week, James Richardson. I didn’t know him personally, but there are many who are mourning the loss of his soul. He was a jolly one, I remember that. Big, beautiful smile. I send out my condolences to his family and friends. Jonathan Byrd wrote a beautiful poem for him, this is the link: The Byrd Word – today’s blog from Jonathan Byrd

Bless all your souls, I love you.

This week in photographs:

 


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Waxing Moon

Smile I see in the sky

I mirror back

every single time.

 

Never have I looked up and frowned

or wished they’d take that incessant light down.

 

The stars dance all around,

thousands of miles

I sing along inside as they whisper by

each with their own unique styles.

 

As the darkened treetops block my view

little windows branches make, so I can see You.

 

I was born when the Moon was growing

and now she tells me about who I am

when she is dark or even when she’s showing.

 

Her pregnancy of light

this waxing Moon

a reflection of many promises

of birthing, of blooms.

 

 

waxing crescent moon

Photo credit: https://www.moonglow.com/blogs/shoot-for-the-moon-blog/moon-phase-personality-descriptions (I was born on a waxing gibbous moon. Here’s a link to a photo of an art piece I did about the Half-Moon, waxing gibbous: https://anitalorraine.files.wordpress.com/2019/05/screen-shot-2019-05-30-at-12.15.04-pm.png )


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TuesDayNewsDay Vol.2 Issue 17, October 30 Caution: Trigger Warning, references to sexual violence

TuesDayNewsDay Vol.2 Issue 17, October 30th – CAUTION: Trigger Warning – this newsletter contains triggering sexual violence references. Please take care.

Dedication: Today’s issue is dedicated to my therapist Karen. Today, while going through what came up in therapy, I realized I would drive to the place, where in October of 1990, I was first molested. I was seven years old. I decided I would drive there, sit on the ground and take a photo. I would also take something of the earth to work with this healing. As the idea came to me, a light bulb exploded in my head. Karen said, “Anita, don’t take your wounded little girl there without your whole adult self holding her, seeing her, and telling her that you are there for her no matter what. You are her nurturing parent now, hold her in your arms.”

I pulled my car into the driveway for the first time ever on my way home from therapy, realizing I have never driven into that driveway before in my life.

This spot, which I have to drive by every time I go to my grandparents’ house, is also a block from where my mother still lives with the pedophile step-father just across the railroad tracks. When I say this healing is a daily, a moment to moment process, I mean it. Literally facing those places every day has wrecked havoc on my insides – but I am resilient and strong, vulnerable and honest with myself. The place is a vacant lot in a trailer park on Pomeroy Street in Graham, where my home used to sit. Now it’s an empty, dirty space with an overgrown concrete platform over which there was a carport. Under that porch, I remember having to take all of our stuffed animals outside to be thrown away because there was such a terrible flea infestation. I remember sneaking up late at night after everyone was asleep, turning on the television to watch Alfred Hitchcock and the Twilight Zone, my face about an inch from the screen, ever wary of any sounds coming from my mother’s end of the trailer lest I get caught.

Vividly, I remember the game we were playing that night in October. My baby sister, a developmentally disabled boy named Jason, and his sister Tasha and I were playing charades. Jason and Tasha were the teenage children of my mother’s red-headed boyfriend. We played in teams and it was decided we would go into the closet to decide what animal or character we would pretend to be. I was seven years old, my sister was 2. I was on Jason’s team. Jason was sixteen. (Typing this I can feel my heart racing and the old familiar anxiety aching in my chest and shoulders, my left eye and cheek twitching.). When we went into that closet and Jason molested me, I was too afraid to move, too afraid to scream, too afraid to fight, too afraid to do anything at all except to freeze. So, I froze. I could feel his icy cold, trembling hands on me. To this day I can still feel the darkness of that closet, the walls closing in around me. When we came out of that closet, I was sick. I don’t remember anything else. I don’t remember the game, nothing. I remember after they left that night, I told my mother what happened. She said to me, “Honey, if it happens again, let me know.”

Those words etched endless caves into the crevices of my heart. Those words are the haunting. Those words represent the moment I knew I was on my own. With no one else to turn to, my grandparents were gone to Disneyland at the time, I was completely alone. I prayed and prayed and heard nothing. Those words mark the day when I, as a seven year old, realized that god didn’t exist and that I wasn’t worth saving. Those words created children’s tears. They cannot be undone, and of course, it happened again.

Despite those memories buried deep in endless caves and my mother within shouting distance, I went. It was my nurturing, accepting, loving, and whole adult self who sat on that ground. I felt the cold, wet grass and soil underneath me. I looked at the trailers to the right and left of me. My phone was propped on the very metal bracket that once held that trailer to the ground. I snapped a shot of me sitting on that sacred ground. It took less than a minute. Leaving, I searched for a four-leaf clover in the tiny patch of yard, but found none. Instead, now a big green black walnut from that place is with me. I plan to do some ritual with that walnut. It tried to escape twice from me before walking up my back-porch steps in Saxapahaw. Something inside told me not to bring it inside my house, so I left it on the back patio table. It is not clear what kind of ritual will come about, but it is sure to be a powerful one of releasing the physical ghosts of that moment. It will be one of forgiving my mother for not knowing or realizing what she was doing. It will be a process of exorcising the grief and trauma which has been sitting in my bones and blood, blooming into the person you see today. Today is all I have.

Quote: Choice is all we get, change is all that’s real.

Song: Silence is the song today folks, listen to your heart beat. – my Tuesday video song series is available here: TuesDay Song Series Video on Facebook

Dear Humans,

Today’s post wasn’t meant to be this way. The events of today were not planned, but have made a mark. The words of my song, Darlene, record this event in a lyrical, symbolic sort of way. Being an artist is a privilege because it lets us put words and visions to feelings and thoughts. We are able to somehow transform our feelings into a universal language others can share. Today with Karen, I admitted to trying to let go of my fears: people won’t like my arts and I’m not good enough to walk in the footsteps of my idols. Slowly and purposefully, she said, “Let’s transform that. You are working on your language, so let’s start here.” So after thinking, my mouth said, “I am letting go of my concern for people not liking my art or me as a person.” I do not need validation of others to justify my existence. This self-work is Sacred. I feed on it; it makes me feel more and more alive and free every day to uncover and unleash the demons. Turns out, they aren’t demons at all. They are one scared, frozen little girl, stepping into who she is destined to be, not solely a victim of her circumstance. I looked Karen in the eyes today and spoke my gratitude for her being here with me this last year and a half of journeying, visioning and healing. It was the first time I’d ever asked to hold hands with anyone. With our feet on the floor, we grounded, I closed my eyes and saw little Anita sitting on my right knee. There Karen prepared me to go sit on that patch of grass, which someday, I will drive by without flinching. I will drive by proud to have been seated there.

Love, ALM


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TuesDayNewsDay Vol.2 Issue 16, October 22

Today’s issue is dedicated to Ruth Gordon! What a firecracker! Tonight I decided to do the Cat Stevens song, “If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out.” The character, “Maude” from the movie, “Harold and Maude” made such an enormous impression on me, this whole day should be dedicated to her glorious soul.

Image result for ruth gordon maude gif
Image result for ruth gordon maude gif
“Do you know that woman? She just stole my car!” says the priest…

Quote:

Image result for harold and maude quotes

Song: My Tuesday video series covers the song of the week! https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=2464801173804147

Dear Humans! There is so much news. There have been some ups and downs over the last week – but today, I’m high on life! The last few days, I have been compiling and digitizing old poetry I wrote back in the day! Some of it absolutely sucks! (That’s my judge-y adult being unfairly mean to my little teenage self who was just hurting a lot and didn’t know what to do with herself.) Nevertheless, there’s a TON of material. I found songs I’d not finished, my eccentric, fairy-tale prose… love letters to my old boyfriends, dreamy poems about my girlfriends and their amazing selves, there’s even a poem about a fuzzy little spider. Here’s that one:

Little jumpin’ spider

i saw you by the window 

oh little jumpin’ spider, 

biggest I ever saw

hairy little arms, squinty little eyes,

fuzzy and twitchy, black as night time sighs

fangs I couldn’t see

oh but I know 

they were waiting just for me

oh little jumping spider 

I’m gonna take you out

cause you know I can’t have you 

here inside my house
~ July 9 2014

Another poem I found was one I wrote while falling in love, it’s precious to me:

Oh. Dear Honey.

You know just how to say

The words that make my insides play

The truest forms of pristine feelings

They escape me through my Smile

They exit through my Exhale

They permeate me in the side of this Time

You’ve awakened a thousand sleeping Fairies

A million bells of stillness are now ringing

An eternity of rustling leaves and moonbeams

A rousing on deep waves of blue and green

I fear not, my eyes are open.

Smooth

Silent, like the wings of a night bird

Calm, yet floating on the clouds of sunset

Giving in to the excitement of the tide

Pushing and pulling and swirling and mingling

Miners, sailors, and gems of old

sing their songs to Us, stories untold

Phantasms in the dark, wrapped inside ourselves

Safe and tender perceptions

Your voice in my soul

I needn’t search for your smile Shadow

Its imprint has been signed onto the whole side of my spirit

I hear you.

You don’t have to speak

I would not be afraid to open my eyes

in your downhill stream

Let us fly

Fly away far into the day

Explore each cave

Sing new songs

Make new Love

~ August, 2010

 

Amazing… I love poetry and painting. Right now, I am in the midst of a new watercolor/ink painting right now. There was an old wooden calligraphy boxed set at the Goodwill the other day, it’s now in my home. So much sharing to do, so much more to transcribe into digital format. Once everything is entered, then begins the editing and placement of letters in exactly the right place. Truly, I want to create a poetry book and for it to be an adult pop-up book. Many of my friends and also my sister have done self-publishing; I may go that route, though it is expensive. I will also pitch the idea to some publishers and see what happens! Last week, a fellow professor at Alamance Community College suggested that I submit some of my poetry into the faculty writing contest. The prospect was exciting so I obliged. Maybe they’ll like them! I’m going to paste the ones I entered here – so you can read all 4 of them as well. 🙂

1. Status Update:

Anita Moore

‘s turning a corner ~ a path to health and clarity 


A non-doldrum roar of cleaning it all the fuck out ~ 

body and spirit ~
love and truth.

I have strands of positivity reaching into the future


I am envisioning that enlivened journey of my Self. 


The yellow-brick road leads to Anita’ville,


the badass grateful go-getter, 

with a no-stop’em medidationary attitude of the Now-Tao.


There are lilies on my tongue and roses in my nose, 
golden light shining right out of my ass. 


Purging and seeing what’s real and what’s not. 


Keeping in the checkmark those stories I tell myself and refuse to listen to the ones that aren’t true. 


No assumptions. No generalizations. Be specific. Be on point. 

Be loving and trusting and open and true. 

Be the brave believer and the courageous vulnerable one.


Be clear and focused and heart-of-gold style out there ~ and right here. 


Breathing and walking and singing and plotting my own enigmatic Now.

This world needs more love and active voices of the light, 

in the streets, in the claiming of what we deserve ~ clean water and fresh air to breathe, 

true voices and something we can believe in: system-change, not puppet change. 

Seething with light-force, I know I am in the heart of God.

I am in the heart of God. I am in the heart of God.

 

2. Decisions and Serendipity

To sit

feel the breeze on my skin

coughing and chatter

cars rolling by

birds hopping, pursuing scraps

the baby talks, indistinguishable from the noise, yet distinctly knowable

Feeling pensive

sure of where I’m from

choosing to go forward into the 

u

n

k

n

o

w

n

no compass

no map

only my own encouraging word

co-mingling with my discouraging chorus

 

Nodding

a tip of the hat to the Builder

the Architect of this vessel

I see that entity as me

still small

yet more vast than I can possibly imagine

 

Others see her

historically I have not

Such privilege to get to sit down in an empty room

choose to listen

rather than speak

I can taste my dreams

I can hear the music

It’s not above my head, heaven IS.

it is within

 

3. Little Girls

We are born fearless, named after our grandmothers

Then we are hushed, beaten and ashamed

We then built walls, taller than we’ll ever be

Beyond the clouds, those walls protect you and me

Then we grow up and learn to see

those walls which fortified us, kept us from being free

They’ve become a cage, we must find a way to escape

To get to the light Beyond our enclosed landscape

We inherit the strength and strife of our ancestors

generations of oppressed children in cages

Self-built and outsourced

yet, we blame ourselves for so much more

What if I told you it’s all okay?

What is you had permission to thrive?

What if in an instant, you tore down your walls?

What if you believe you can fly?

I’ve been beaten, assaulted, invaded, invalidated and thrown

Boundaries a foreign concept, and now I’ve learned

That I have a right to one or two of my own

It is my time and time for you

This ripeness of this moment will free you

Like it has freed me, all you have to do is surrender

to the sacred survivor inside you

That little girl who saved you

who gave you the tools to save yourself

She is your higher power

She is your salvation

Treat her with respect and compassion

Cradle her when things become tough

She carried you, now you must carry her

She didn’t deserve her oppression

She didn’t ask for a beating

She called out for help and her mother never answered

She has you now, her protector

 

I knew a dual world

Two extremes in life

A cradling and an abandonment

A vision of everlasting love and a nightmare of neglect

A plethora of mentors and guides, a whole population of me-shaped limitations

A society meant to hold me down and also the privilege and the choice to rise above

I am finding my way back to the Looking Glass

A child of Neptune sternly placed among the ills of Life

Too forcefully unsupported and left with your homemade guilt

There is true wisdom in these fantasies

Yet they were too early extinguished, I am finding my way back now

You can also find yours

The path to the box of liquid filled rainbows

The visions lie beyond what we can see

The inspiration my little girl has left for me

She still has her key, it was hidden and now is bright

Shining by the light through the keyhole of the drawer where she buried it out of sight

 

4. The Muses Groove

This rhythm is rolling, 
rolling around inside 

my undulating chest 
and heart


Sitting at this wooden table


contemplating it not being real
 and part of me…
 

and part of you…
.

and I’m not really touching it… 

it’s touching me.

 

The music changes

I dream of being a poet

I dream of being who I am

 

I dream of making music 

unabashedly humble

grateful to share this gift with the Greats

To only for a moment think of all those who laid the path before me

those brave and enduring souls who

pebble by pebble, note by note

stroke by stroke, experience by heartbreakingly joyful, or painful, experience, tapped in

 

They tapped in, not out


Some through Divine Spirit intervention,


some through straight-up booze.

Whatever the avenue, whatever the teacher,

it brought about my ancestors of music and word.

They walked that road.

 

Creative muse lingers just outside our reach 

we must take heed


We must cook up that stew

be ready when the salt falls from the shelf

to delightfully enrich our slippery, sensuous, slimy, salubrious, sacred soup


So thank you. 

Thank you Greats. 

Thank you oldies, thank you newbies

thank you to those who have yet to be born.

 


Thank you for learnin’ me to open up

stand up straight

be connected to the ground

lift my head and sing – those notes are not mine, they are Ours.

 

If you’ve made it this far, I hope you enjoyed it! Adieu for now! Crystal Bright and I will be doing a show together in Greensboro on November 12th.  Other than that show, I’ll be recording in the studio, painting, and compiling/editing poetry! Y’all have a beautiful week. 

Love, ALM


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Crow Crosses The Moon

Crow Crosses the Moon

Grandfather finally heard him… 

the crow, squawking in the twilight, that night he could hear again

Today, I saw him flying just across the newly waning Moon 

In the morning daylight, sky filled with blue


There are lots of old crows in my life

Moments of nostalgia, of regret

moments of desire to be between lines on the highway

those places I haven’t met just yet

The mountain comes to mind, I used to call my home

An old crow lives there. A hermit, a giggler, free to roam.

He beckons me sometimes, I revisit those old lives

I heed the call sometimes, in search of starlight time


But finding solace in the gravel, in the fearless doe’s eyes

Inside what used to be pain, newfound serenity belies 


Up there, amongst the endless trails

The crows, they laugh and sing

in droves, which song?

Which melody? Something, certainly, is stirring

Only once did I hear an owl, what kind I couldn’t tell

the lone mountainside cried, under some kind of ancient spell


The trees up there, gnarled from incessant winds

Loom over the ground, so rocky, my hands would often skim

The bright green ramps litter early Spring, 

Deep, crimson trilliums, spring beauties, and turk’s cap blossom shortly, to miss this magic feels simply like a sin


Beech trees and old hills of yore

They have seen many lives and grown many more

I dream of visitation, no longer of a life

But when from a crow, a glimpse of wildness, a journey I must expedite