A Reprise

Hi! I have made some changes to my sidebar syndications. I have not found any new material for Fuck Yeah Generation X lately, which I'm sorry for, because it seems like a lot of people are interested in it. So right now I am syndicating The Magic Circle , which is my spirituality journal. This is partly to encourage me to write spiritual thoughts there  instead of here , and keep it all on track. I tend to not write there. Do I have anything else to say here? I don't think I do. Oh, I read about a new kind of water spirit. This is relevant of course. The rusalka . I was absolutely captivated by these readings and they've been in my thoughts much this week. I think there is much wisdom in words about women idealizing these water maidens as what women once might have been, or could be. The mermaids are our kindred. This becomes a deep truth when I realize that deep within us lies both the male and female entity. I am not talking about the surface ideas of men and w...

She had entered the holy temple. It was cool and dripping with the smell of incense, like the cave she loved. She felt Sam standing next to her in a tailored brown suit with a matching vest, which she had never seen him wear, and so dressed he looked much younger than she was accustomed to. The fragrance of his mother and sisters stuck in her throat like taffy. They were wearing separate, loud colognes that blurred momentarily in the narthex, making Lilith long for the scents of sweat and salt water, unpretentious and undemanding. Her breath trembled to come out of her, but she forced it back in like a fisherman plunging struggling fish into a bucket. Mr. Zimmerman’s meaty, hairy arms flashed before her eyes. Emmaline was wearing a delicate pink dress that attacked Lilith’s yellow linen like a bloodthirsty dragon, reducing it to tattered shreds around her scuffed ankle boots. Lilith’s head felt as stiff as a basket from the spray she had used to tame her hair. Emmaline’s hair was s...

This morning I awaken in Lilith's land. As soon as we stepped out of the airport I was suffused with warm, fragrant air. As we made our way to the parking garage palm trees and swaying vines loomed over us. As we drove to our hotel I looked out the window and saw lakes, and lakes, and pine trees silhouetted against the sky, above which was a 22% waxing moon settled comfortably like the Cheshire cat's smile. I did not expect all of the pine trees, or all of the lakes. Am I wrong for wishing Disney World were not here?

"A feminist is any woman who tells the truth about her life." - Virginia Woolf As I near the end of Faith and Feminism, I have more questions than when I started. But I am learning that questions are better guides than answers. My first question is, Where does my essential energy lie? And within that, all these uncomfortable barbs and doubts needle my mind. I no longer have the deep visionary desire to write as I once did. I am not wrought with ambition to see my name in print. I no longer care if it ever is. I see my lack of notice from the world as good because I am not influenced by what others see in me, or my imagined perception of this, before I am secure enough to deal with something like that as a writer with an audience who receives many comments. My feelings about writing books have changed from the burning need to write, as an adolescent, to the driving need to be in print, whatever I wrote, as a college student, to a deep reluctance to submit anything, for fear...

Lilith stumbled back from the rocks and waded back to shore. As she looked back, she saw the white of Amalthea's garments and the tawny bronze hair waving in the wind like fearsome flags. She was suddenly constricted with fear for Jim, realized she should not have left him alone with Amalthea. But it was too late to return. She knew it in Amalthea's sudden keening cry. She saw her slender form collapse upon the jagged rocks as her melodious voice lifted in terrifying song. The sky melted suddenly into pools of ink, and the wind was blunt and cold across her wet clothes. Lilith turned and ran back to the house. The kitchen door slammed behind her as her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. "Lorena? Is anyone home?" She tracked sand across the clean linoleum. Her clothes dripped as she wandered from room to room, shaking with grief and sudden fear. She felt horrifyingly alone. "Mother? Mother.?" She opened the door to her parents' bedroom, a san...

Wallace Stevens She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean. The sea was not a mask. No more was she. The song and water were not medleyed sound Even if what she sang was what she heard, Since what she sang was uttered word by word. It may be that in all her phrases stirred The grinding water and the gasping wind; But it was she and not the sea we heard. For she was the maker of the song she sang. The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew It was the spirit that we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang. If it was only the dark voice of the sea That rose, or even colored by many waves; If it was only the outer voice of sky An...