Everything Untitled

I know. I have not been writing. Things have been huge and tiny here, all at once. Painful and yet, I wake up feeling my wings opening. Most days.

The Scorpios are both broken hearted.

I made a stock of lamb bones, rosemary, and various odds and ends from the freezer I'd saved to stock making, and intended to do up Julia Child's lamb stew recipe yesterday, but I woke up feeling icky and stayed in bed. So, tomorrow. Lamb stew. The stock will keep. Surely the stew meat will, too, for one more day? The recipe isn't complicated, I'm just still too wiped out. In the morning I'll pick my fresh peas from the garden for the stew, and make it in the evening. It may be that Scorpio I will be around to share!

I read today on CNN that Cindy Sheehan is hanging it up. She’s tired. She’s broke. And nobody’s listening anyway. That’s what she said, they say. Particularly, the Democratic Congress isn’t listening. I know exactly how she feels --they're such wimps -- except that my son and daughter are still here and alive, knock on wood. It’s hard to fight trivialization. And those in love with war, it seems, have learned that to trivialize is to suck the power right out of most displays of solidarity and protest. It was a brilliant insight, and they use it well.

Update: Here's the link to her resignation letter: http://www.dailykos.com/story/2007/5/28/12530/1525

But the heart continues. And no one can make war happen in there, if you don’t let them. And the more peaceful hearts we get, the more peace we get.

These are the things I’m thinking today.

The Kingdom of Ends

Oh, dear. What does it take to make me walk out on Britten's War Requiem, that magnificent work of pacifist disgust at war and hope for what's beyond? Ungentlemanly behavior, that's what. Metal Ox has failed the tests of Kant's Categorical Imperatives many times, and the Requiem Failure will have to be his last; especially, preceded as it was by the Comply Sexually or be Spurned Failure of last weekend. "Act only according to that maxim by which you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law." If such is the thought of Metal Ox regarding the treatment of women at concerts and in bed, then he will have to proceed in his delusion sans moi. Later I may tell the story. At present I am recovering. Just imagine this: shocked by his ungentlemanly and manipulative act I walk off, wordlessly, through the suits and pretty dresses, the gold leafed white and soaring walls, the buzzing promise of the music to come, in the direction of the ladies room, then lo! -- beyond, and continue out the side door of the symphony hall and to my car, leaving him to, I suppose, take a cab home. I am giddy with the power of finally taking care of myself.

And then The Chef takes me in for the evening and we have wine and the best fresh peach cobbler (thanks, Uncle) I have ever had and wonderful talking -- girl power!

See, Kant argues (as I understand it) that once all layers of motivation (material gain, sexual favors, feeling good about oneself, etc.) to do good are peeled away, the person acting from true duty, a truly higher or unselfish purpose, is the person who acts to help others for no other reason than it is the right thing to do. Metal Ox, it seems to me from the way he treats me, always wants something in return. It's a tit for tat proposition. He can't do something for me without expecting something in return. And no matter what I try to give him, it's never enough, or it's not the correct thing. He wants me to dust his house even though I'm allergic to his cat. He doesn't want me to cook for him, even though I'm really good at that, because "Banquette can do the same thing." He is in both of these things either disregarding my health or devaluing my gifts. Also, he knows I would cook for him even if he wasn't doing me any favors, so that lessens the cooking's value even more. In no case is my love and comapnionship enough. Ever. He doesn't even seem to get satisfaction from taking care of me or helping because it makes him feel good, which puts him in some pretty superficial layers of motivation. The point is, though, that all this mathematical relationship record keeping is not about giving and loving, it's about getting something back or else not expending the energy, and that's just not how I want to approach things. And so I say: he has failed Kant's test. This is The Kingdom of Ends. One is to never treat another person as if they are a Means (I will do X for you if you will do Y for me; I will spend time with you because it will get me Z; etc.); one is always to treat another person as if they were an End (you exist therefore I will do X for you; you are the reason I do X for you; doing X for you is right, therefore I do X for you). When one behaves in this latter way, one is eligible to be part of the Kingdom of Ends, where one dwells in the higher realms of true Reason. I love this trope.

I may be over-simplifying Immanuel, or otherwise misreading him. If you're reading this, Ms. Reason, or any other Kantian, please correct me freely.

Now, I must thank Ms. Reason for her reminder of my love of Kant, she being a Kantian scholar and one third of our newly minted Smart Pretty Girls Club, that mold being struck by our poet-scholar Princess and first enacted on Friday night, thanks to the grace and goodness of her compelling parental units and their gorgeous home. What fun! My God, I love Pretty Smart Girls. We are to read Iris Murdoch's The Sacred and Profane Love Machine, which I am so far, fittingly, loving. And the scope of possible discussion with these two seems endless. And they're pretty! Do you know how much fun it is to watch pretty people talk smart? I could do it forever. I do have to thank Tim for the meeting of The Princess. What a boon. (Of course I like to watch pretty boys talk smart, too -- but where are they?)

My girl cousins have also been quite charming and lovely, lately. Ms. Oklahoma sent me the most fabulous package of Arbonne products as a thanks for helping her daughter with a crucial college paper -- whoopee!!!! You can't imagine how happy this present makes me. And my skin already looks better, I swear to God. And Ms. Miami has been the steadiest and most glowing of lovely moral supporters, in so many ways, since we started emailing. The only sadness is that we see each other so seldom, of course. But this is the modern sadness. Communication without contact. Unless you believe that the heart chakra opens, receives and gives without regard for physical space. Which I do. And so there.

And my daughter, lovely thing that she is, so helpful and sweet and there she is giving me a BBQ grill for Mother's Day! How perfect! If only I could see her more, too. And then my mommy, always the lifesaver, waiting patiently for her pearls (they're in the mail, I swear!).

And, UPDATE!: My lovely son got me Guitar Hero II for Mother's Day! How many mothers can say that, eh? Huh? Tell me? How many! It am sooooooo happy! This is the best music game ever!

I am all aglow with good will toward my fellow women, and my son. I am open to feeling aglow toward my fellow men, but it's a little less on the surface right at this moment. Still, good luck, Metal Ox. I do love you, but I think you might be crazy in the not so good way that makes me feel unsafe. And in my personal Kingdom of Ends, which I hope is universal, well, that's just not what one should will.

I draw a bath, enter the water as a god enters water:
Fertile, knowing, kind, surrounded by glass objects
Which could break easily if mishandled or ill-touched.
Everyone knows an unworshipped woman will betray you.
There is always that promise, I like that. Kingdom of Kinesis.
Kingdom of Benevolent. I will betray as a god betrays,
With tenderheartedness. I've got this mystic streak in me.

--Lucie Brock-Broido, from Domestic Mysticism

A Whiney Girl Wishing

Always I feel torn between beauty and sadness. Sometimes I feel so spoiled, other times so deprived. Actually, I only feel spoiled as a guilt reaction to feeling deprived. Example? I have this beautiful photo of a lotus flower on my computer desktop. Staring at it just now, I really wanted to be out in the Botanical Garden, walking around, examining all the perfect details of its flowers and plants. How can something as transparent as a pink lotus petal be so sturdy? I want to touch it. I'm tired of the fakeness of the photo. Of all fakeness. Of even the fakeness of cruelty and disregard -- I know these are fake, because the core of us is light, and the meanness is what we use to isolate ourselves from ourselves, because the light means that we know better than the cruelty we engage in.

And the sadness. I do still believe that the disappearing bees could be the canary in the coal mine. The hubris of humans, the ingratitude, abusiveness. It’s too much.

And then something happens, someone says something, and I’m thrown back to another time; I’m stunned for days, lost, a child, cold metal on my throat. The only refuge I have, my heart, light, but I want to remove myself from the world. I want more, forgetfulness, illusion that there is some nurturing for me. I want something savory in my mouth, a pampering meal, an art I can taste, the wine of forgetfulness, then a walk with the sun and the wind. I want to remember that the world is, core-deep, something more than this inescapable cruelty and selfishness. Why do humans so rarely know what is precious? Why can’t we hold those things gently, quietly?

I wish that in my life no one would ever raise his voice to me again. I wish for some shelter, some sheltering, some home of my own, or some sharing of that, some cupping in the hand of this little flower of me, some art I can feel, some thing consistently gentle and kind.

And then I feel sad and selfish for these thoughts, because I know all too well how privileged my physical surroundings make me. And it’s spoiled/deprived all over again.

The simple Is. It’s the flower that takes me closer to That. Thank you, Universe, for those flowers. Please help the bees find their way home.

And me, too, if you please.

:-)

Sexual Dysfuntion, My Ass!

An article from Reuters,
dated April 9, 2007:

“Low hormone level linked to sexual dysfunction:
Menopausal women twice as likely to report problems, study finds”

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/18024478/

So, now they're tagging menopausal and post-menopausal women as “dysfunctional” if they aren’t horny and don’t come fast like bunny rabbits every time they do it? Jesus. Can we get a break here? First, all the poor old men are told that they aren’t man enough if they can’t get it up until the day they day, spurring the unrestrained manufacturing of what I like to call “Grandma Bane,” and what the drug companies like to call “erectile dysfunction medication.”

See, the thing is, a natural aspect of menopause is that drop in hormone levels that leads to the falling away of the sex drive’s intensity. It’s what’s supposed to happen! It’s not a dysfunction!

And it’s logical. We’re not child bearers any more. We don’t need to keep screwing five times a day. Neither do our honored companions, the Grandpa’s. This is the time in life when we are supposed to put our energy elsewhere – like in leading our grown children toward productive parenting, or world travel or whatever; like contributing something meaningful to the world, now that we’ve matured enough to realize that life isn’t all about getting laid all the time and buying new clothes to attract men’s attention.

But, now that grandpa is running around with his stiff member sticking out in front of his old pudding belly all the time like a wrinkly, blotchy old rhino horn, grandma’s got to get with it, too? Ehew. Give it rest, Grandpa.

And you, too Pfizer. Focus on curing, oh, I don't know, ocular histoplasmosis, maybe? Or inflammatory breast cancer? How about a test for early detection of ovarian cancer, maybe? Or, I know, an antidepressant that will create the sort of brain changes that allow a person to get off the drug eventually? With fMRIs, I think that's possible now, folks. Get some Tibetan meditators in there, use them as your baseline sample.

And really, even when we’re talking about the 50-somethings (as 50 is the new thirty), how ready to perform do we have to be, ladies? OK, I’m not quite 50 yet; I’ve got a couple years to go. But I’m starting to look in that direction, see where I’m going, and to identify more with the 50 set than the 40. And I can tell you, my sex drive is not, at almost-50, anything near what it was at 40-ish. (And 40-ish felt like normal, after twenty years of a sex drive so annoyingly and persistently strong that it would have made Hugh Heffner look like a slouch.)

Identifying, then, upwardly, I feel compelled to demand my Lady-Rights. I have finally reached an age when I feel comfortable wearing a silk scarf around my neck, and pearls in the day time. I have reached Lady Age. It was hard work getting here. I’ve kept myself, minus occasional journeys into chubbiness, fairly nicely preserved, I believe, and without “work” of any kind upon my physical form. In other words, I’ve passed entirely out of girldom, and while I will always be a woman, I can now also claim to be a Lady. As a Lady, I refuse to be pressured into taking drugs to up my sex drive by exactly the same jerks and cultural forces that are leading my sisters to anesthetized self-mutilation ("cosmetic surgery") on operating tables the world over. I just refuse. The Cult of Youth is way out of control: Look young. Screw young. Be horny like you’re young or you're not worth the skin you’re using up. Wrong! There is so much beauty in age. There is wisdom and kindness and the joy of taking one's time. And I really do think that wrinkles and grey hair, on a healthy woman who glows from the inside, and cares for herself because she loves who she really is, well -- I think that's all beautiful. And on men, too. And a man who appreciates a woman who is his equal, even in age? That's sexy. And sexy, BTW, doesn't always mean hopping in the sack.

Yes, sometimes I still feel like looking the Hot Babe part. And sometimes I do still feel like, well, having sex. Ok. Fine, if it’s internally motivated. But if you’re going to tell me that when I come out on the other side of menopause I’m supposed to be ready to get it on as if that menopause never happened, well then, you can just go jump in a lake somewhere. That’s just silly. If I happen to want to all on my own, well, that’s another story. But my God, can a woman just get some rest around here, please? And I'll tell you what -- horny old men? Or old men so weak in the ego and preternaturally immature that you must keep fucking every six minutes in order to fell good about yourselves? Or you can't stay out of the porn or the strip clubs long enough to deflate that Viagra-induced blasphemy you call a Johnson? We don't need you, anyway. We prefer a little more substance to our men. How about a conversation? Or a good meal? We'll wait around for those guys. They're more fun, anyway.

Or how about a man who is sick of seeing women promoted -- or promote themselves -- as objects of pleasure? After all, this I'm talking about here? This is what that's come to. And, Hey Ladies! if we're going to buy into it -- all the implants and botoxes and drugs to make us horny and stripper poles and youth cults and blow jobs on first dates and any other "Just let me make myself into what you want me to be, Baby," crap you want to point to -- we're just about as guilty as any They we can name.




I say:
Ladies of the World Unite!
We will not betray ourselves with surgeries and drugs!
We will let neither the culture, men, nor one another convince us that:
We have to stay firm and wrinkle-free forever,That we have to behave like adolescent (or even thirty-something) girls,
We must have bosoms of a certain size to be beautiful, or
That grey hair is ugly.

Instead, we Pledge that we will:

Love our wrinkles!
Love our movable flesh! Love our natural hair!
Love our wimpy sex drive!
We will love ourselves as we are!

Mugging, A Bee-less Einstein, and Ouches

As far as I've been able to determine, looking at other people's efforts to confirm attribution, Albert Einstein did not say: "If the bee disappeared off the surface of the globe then man would only have four years of life left. No more bees, no more pollination, no more plants, no more animals, no more man."

Einstein or no, now that the bee story has emerged into the general consciousness, I wonder if, collectively, we’ll care enough to do something about it? If this so-called Colony Collapse Disorder is, indeed, caused by, let’s say, cell phone radiation, will be all drop out cell phones? Will the towers come down? Or will we tread the global warming path, and watch business and government together trivialize the phenomenon in order to save the mega-com companies’ profits?

I liked that Metal Ox said simply, when I asserted that if it is truly shown that cell phones are messing up the bee’s homing mechanisms, that I would get rid of my beloved cell phone, “We might not have a choice.” There is a beautiful innocence in this moment. It’s sweet that he would trust that such a thing would be so. I don’t. I’ve watched evidence of global warming, deadly and irreversible water source degradation, and blah blah blah ad infinitum get ignored and propagandized away for approximately 25 years now. I’ve seen a trillion people roll their eyes every time I tried to suggest we might want to take some responsibility in there matters. Unless it’s in the mainstream news every day for a month, it doesn’t exist, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t trust that humans, collectively, will sacrifice crap for the larger good. Sorry. I know individuals who do it. I just haven’t seen it happening en masse.

______________

In other matters, it was reported to me that a woman was approached from behind and hit in the head with a brick, by some unknown man, a block or so from the yoga studio yesterday in broad daylight. She was on her way to class, carrying nothing but her matt. The man apparently did not try to rape her, or steal anything (why would he want her yoga matt, unless he didn’t know what it was?). So why did he do this? Simple insanity? Rage at income disparity? Gentrification-angst? Race rage (the two were of different races)?

I emailed Art Holliday at KSDK, to ask him if he’d heard about it, and if they were going to report on it. He’s answered email from me before, and he’s always been really sweet. Haven’t heard back from him (yet?) though. Then I dropped another email to Harry Levins at the Post-Dispatch. He wrote me back, saying, “Normally, we don't report on muggings. There are so many that they'd cause the [P-D web] site to overflow. Sorry.”

Wow.
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Here’s a shout-out to The Princess, who had shoulder surgery yesterday and is rather down and out: Hey, Your Highness-Girl. I’ll be out there pretty soon and we’ll hang. K?