This weekend was an interesting development of fame. Three different people saying that strangers asked them if they knew Misha Moon. Out of delight. Out of “Misha is a known transexual.” And I guess I’m known in this town. But I don’t know how I feel about that.
The sunlight shines across my keyboard, leaving warm speckles. Monday and its quiet during lunch, punctuated by the laughter of children playing with a puppy. They romp in a pet cemetery, where a orangutan sleeps among the kittens and puppies and horses. Her name was Peggy Borneo, and she was owned by a woman here in Portland. Her life was not happy, not unhappy. She was purchased to be a performer, to be onstage, to do tricks. She lived a long long time, visited city parks, played with children in the speckle of light.