The Refrigerator Wife trope has haunted us for centuries. There are plenty of fairy tales where a woman has to die in order for something to happen, and so many books from the 18th and 19th centuries where a woman is just starting to have some agency over her life and has to either commit suicide or die of the consumption (it’s always the fucking consumption, innit?) because we can’t have women making their own decisions about their lives.
You’re getting weak, Old Sun. Not so long ago your slightest touch would set my skin aflame But now … You’re getting weak, Old Sun. And Winter, he’s coming for you, and I don’t know if you have the stones to see him off anymore. I think maybe you threw your weight around a little
And silliness in movement, of course. Gotta have the silly. I have spent a ridiculous amount of time being still in the past 10 days post-eye surgery, and am struggling a bit to get moving again. Part of me wonders if I am just not ready, and another part of me wonders if … well,
I’m going to be taking a little time away from most things involving binocular vision. Not quite sure for how long yet. I may have mentioned that my vision is crap once or twice … well, not joking about that. And next week I’m having the first of two eye surgeries that will hopefully fix
I try really hard not to market at you, dear Reader, through these posts, so if this feels remotely markety, please accept my most sincere apology. Truth is, I am having revelation after revelation, and success after success, exploring deeper into Shamanic Healing, and I just want to rave about it. As may have been
Twelve years ago this month I stepped away from an unhappy marriage and never looked back. Yeah, yeah, do the math … okay there was some overlap. Whatever. I’m over it. The Lightning of True Love struck a bit before I was safely able to extricate myself from the situation I was in. It happens.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking – again – about how science and materiality have utterly trumped mystery. Well, it’s a sore spot and no mistake. I’ve been reading a book by David Abram called Becoming Animal, and he devoted quite a bit of ink to this idea as well. (I’m hugely enjoying Abram’s
Desperate times call for … a mother who can invent. We’ve been in a drought for a while, and it’s getting pretty … grim. Seemed the only way we could get any rain at all when there was any in the area was for me to go outside and hurl insults up at the sky,
I live in a world that grooves, gyrates, syncopates, and funks to the rhythm in my bones. A couple decades ago, during a time of ridiculous stress, I developed a heart arrhythmia that gave me a spot of bother. The heart specialist showed me the EKG readout, pointing out that one of my ventricles was
Some of us have reached the age where our heroes are disappearing off the face of the Earth. We have to figure out how to navigate a world without Tina Turner, Gordon Lightfoot, Cormac McCarthy, Harry Belafonte … so many are gone. It’s part of growing up, like being kicked out of yet another nest.
