Spock -v- Spock

My new diary (see previous post) fell open at a quote from the other Spock, that evil twin, Dr Benjamin. ‘Happiness,’ he says ‘is mostly a by-product of doing what makes us feel fulfilled.’ So far, so asinine. Except that he didn’t make my mother happy and he made me miserable.

I can’t remember exactly when it was – teenage years, and I expect after I had thrown some tantrum or other – that my mother came out with this statement, by the end of which she was nearly in tears: ‘I think it may be my fault that you Turned Out The Way You Did. You were my first baby and I relied on Dr Spock’s book [Baby and Child Care, 1946] to tell me what to do. He said not to pick up a crying baby, so I stood outside your room, for hours sometimes, crying myself, listening to you cry. But I dared not go in and pick you up.’

Now, as hurtful information this works on multiple levels. The first to hit me – unintended by my mother – was the realisation that she did not regard me as a lovable or normal child – that I had ‘Turned Out’ in some way. Until that moment, although I sensed I might not have been their preferred option, child-wise, I had not understood that they regarded me as actually defective. I’d known since birth, of course, that I had been dumped here from some spaceship or other – all of us aliens know that. It’s like waking up in the middle of a football match. You don’t want to play but there seems to be no off-football-pitch alternative. Everybody’s bellowing and running for no obvious purpose and you wonder how come they have the rules and I don’t? That’s just not fair.

The second hit was – how could you have been so stupid as to follow the advice of some ghastly man on the other side of the world (practically) rather than following your  feminine instincts? Even with a first baby – why didn’t you just pick me up for God’s sake? Didn’t you know…? But of course, she didn’t know.

The third was, how dare this Man… with his well-meaning but totally defective advice place such a burden of guilt on my mother for all these years?

So, I didn’t like him. It may well be that my mother misinterpreted Baby and Child Care. I haven’t read it, and probably won’t. It may well have been a misunderstanding, a misreading – or self-justification.

Then Star Trek came on TV and I discovered Science Fiction. The first Star Treks, as anyone watching them nowadays can see, were pretty disastrous. Only slightly better than the first Dr Whos for wobbly scenery, weird costumes (aliens often seemed to be a sweaty greenish colour) and a shiny studio floor showing through underneath the plastic boulders. I couldn’t be bothered with Captain Kirk. Kirk –pfft! A fig for your Captain Kirk and his swashbuckling ways.

But I developed an instant affection for Leonard Nimoy which has never dimmed in spite of his death a while ago at the age of – I believe – 83. And for Spock, of course. It wasn’t just those ears – though they were fascinating and – let’s admit it, ever so slightly sexy. It was the fact that he was wise, and gentle and alien. When I imagined my Guardian Angel, it looked like him. He came from, in some sort of way, where I had come from – or where I would have felt at home.

So, if a Vulcan vessel happens to be passing, do feel free to Beam Me Up.

The moon’s on a biscuit

This is apparently the only statement of note uttered by me during my infancy. As far as I recall I was walking down our street after dark with Mum – no idea why – and happened to look up at the moon. Observing it surrounded by a circular, brownish haze I exclaimed Oh look, the moon’s on a biscuit. It is not a clever statement. It is not even a poetic statement. I have since written poetry, some of it rather good if I say so myself, but that night I was being drearily literal. I had never seen the moon surrounded by brownish haze before and a biscuit was the only half-suitable circular object I could think of to liken it to.

I think what depresses me is that so much was made of it. Did I never say anything else, that anyone can remember? I believe my niece’s first words were something to do with the stock market having declined by three points. Or maybe that was somebody else’s niece… no, I think it was mine. Now that was spectacular, though I doubt if she actually understood the risings and fallings of the stock market. Who does?

I can also remember my mother confessing to mistakes she had made in parenting which had resulted in my ‘turning out the way I did’. Apparently as a young first-time Mum she had been very much under the influence of Dr Benjamin Spock’s book Parenting and Child Care which had advocated not picking a child up when it cried – ever, according to my mother. So when I was a baby she had stood outside my door crying because I was crying, not daring to open the door and pick me up for fear of incurring the Wrath of Dr Spock. This is a particularly stupid idea and I wouldn’t be surprised if its implementation did cause a great deal of damage, but that wasn’t what bothered me. It was her saying that I had ‘turned out the way I did’. Until that moment I had assumed I was more or less normal and that it was my parents who had ‘turned out the way they did’. After that I felt like a mug with a missing handle or a toy soldier with only one arm.

Anyway, moons. This post was going to be about full moons. It is early evening as I write this and I keep going to the back window to look out, since tonight is the night of the November full moon known as Moon Before Yule according to Old English almanacs. It is the last full moon before Christmas. The dates vary from year to year.

Full moon names have also varied over time and from one hemisphere to another, since seasonal changes take place during ‘opposite’ months in the Northern and Southern hemispheres. The sequence for this particular calendar for 2015 has been running:

  • Moon After Yule (January 5th)
  • Wolf Moon (February 3rd)
  • Lenten Moon (March 5th)
  • Egg Moon (April 4th)
  • Milk Moon (May 4th)
  • Flower Moon (June 2nd)
  • Hay Moon (July 2nd)
  • Grain Moon (July 31st)
  • Fruit Moon (August 29th)
  • Harvest Moon (September 28th)
  • Hunter’s Moon (October 27th)
  • Moon Before Yule (November 25th)

and 2016 goes on:

  • Moon After Yule (December 25th)
  • Wolf Moon (January 24th)
  • Lenten Moon (February 22nd)

I found Wolf Moon in a Witches’ Date Book earlier this evening – which is what started me off on the moon-post thing. I bought the Date Book for a friend of mine, who is a witch. I try not to read people’s Christmas present books, but never succeed. As least this one is spiral-bound, so it won’t be all creased around the spine when she gets it. If she gets it. At the moment I’m too fascinated to wrap it up.

Naming full moons was a good way of recalling the passage of time and important events in a time before clocks and calendars. The Algonquin tribes of New England and westward to Lake Superior, had their own names. For example January was their Wolf Moon, February the Snow Moon, March the Worm Moon, April the Pink Moon, March the Flower Moon, June the Strawberry Moon, July the Buck Moon, August the Sturgeon Moon, September the Harvest Moon, October the Hunter’s Moon, November the Beaver Moon and December the Cold Moon.

Most seasons have three full moons but occasionally a season will have four full moons, and the ‘spare’ one is known as a Blue Moon.

And, apropos of nothing, the Matala Moon referred to in Joni Mitchell’s 1971 song ‘Carey’ refers to a place called Matala on the Isle of Crete, where hippies hung out in Neolithic caves for a while, in the 60s.

A few days later, Penelope and I were on a ferry to see what Matala was all about … Most of the hippies who had traveled there slept in small caves carved into the cliff on one side of the beach.

After we arrived, Penelope and I rented a cinder-block hut in a nearby poppy field and walked down to the beach. As we stood staring out, an explosion went off behind us. I turned around just in time to see this guy with a red beard blowing through the door of a cafe. He was wearing a white turban, white Nehru shirt and white cotton pants. I said to Penelope, ‘What an entrance—I have to meet this guy.’ … He was American and a cook at one of the cafes. Apparently, when he had lit the stove, it blew him out the door. That’s how Cary [Raditz] entered my life—ka-boom.